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A  Week  on  the  Concord  and 
Merrimack  Rivers 

BY 

HENRY   D.    THOREAU 


WITH   AN    INTRODUCTION 

BY 

NATHAN    H.    DOLE 


NEW   YORK 

THOMAS   Y.    CROWELL  &   CO. 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1900, 
By  THOMAS  Y.   CROWELL  &  CO. 


stack 
Annex 

5" 


Where'er  thou  sail'st  who  sailed  with  me 
Though  now  thou  climbest  loftier  mounts, 
And  fairer  rivers  dost  ascend, 
Be  thou  my  Muse,  my  Brother — . 


2053973 


I  am  bound,  I  am  bound,  for  a  distant  shore, 
By  a  lonely  isle,  by  a  far  Azore, 
There  it  is,  there  it  is,  the  treasure  I  seek. 
On  the  barren  sands  of  a  desolate  creek. 


I  sailed  up  a  river  with  a  pleasant  wind, 
New  lands,  new  people,  and  new  thoughts  to  find ; 
Many  fair  reaches  and  headlands  appeared, 
And  many  dangers  were  there  to  be  feared ; 
But  when  I  remember  where  I  have  been, 
And  the  fair  landscapes  that  I  have  seen, 
Thou  seemest  the  only  permanent  shore, 
The  cape  never  rounded,  nor  wandered  o'er. 


INTRODUCTION. 

Most  of  us  live  as  unconscious  of  the  animated 
world  about  us  as  we  are  of  the  cloud  of  unseen  wit- 
nesses by  which  we  are  said  to  be  surrounded.  We 
turn  a  deaf  ear  to  all  but  the  most  obvious  songs  ; 
our  eyes  gaze  into  the  haunts  of  the  birds  and  we 
see  only  sparrows  and  robins.  We  go  our  way  and 
let  our  humble  brothers  go  theirs.  What  we  know 
of  "  animated  Nature "'  we  take  on  faith  from  Gold- 
smith and  those  of  his  school.    As  Browning  says  :  — 

"  Afiowe)-  is  just  a  fiower  : 
Man,  bird,  beast  are  but  beast,  bird,  7na7i." 

We  haye  learned  in  the  last  hundred  years  to  ap- 
preciate the  picturesque.  Search  through  the  litera- 
ture of  Greece  and  Rome  and  we  shall  find  few 
references  to  the  beauties  of  mountain  and  sea.  The 
ancients  had  only  a  limited  spectrum  and  even  the 
nightingale  did  not  inspire  their  flights  of  song.  Chau- 
cer and  Milton  and  Goldsmith  went  to  Italy,  but  the 
sight  of  the  Alps  did  not  rouse  one  of  them  to  l-reak 
forth  into  such  a  hymn  as  Coleridge,  with  a  little  help 
from  a  German  master,  sung  to  the  Dawn  in  the 
Valley  of  Chamounix. 

Brunetto  Latini  personifies  Nature  as  a  gracious 
woman   of  colossal    stature  gathering  into  her  arms 


viii  IXTR  OD  UC  TIOX. 

all  the  creatures  that  live,  but  in  all  his  long  poem 
there  is  not  another  gleam  of  picturesqueness.  His 
greater  pupil,  Dante,  introduced  passages  of  radiant 
beauty  into  the  Divine  Comedy ^  but  the  test  of  their 
picturesqueness  in  our  modern  sense  of  the  word 
would  be  to  try  to  paint  them.  The  Nature  of  Mil- 
ton was  as  formal  as  the  closely  trimmed  hedges  or 
the  cropped  trees  which  he  must  have  seen  on  the 
Continent.  Pope's  famous  grotto  was  a  type  of  the 
Nature  which  he  loved.  This  larger  aspect  of  Nature 
is,  as  I  have  said,  modern  ;  but  the  microscopic  study 
of  every  phase  of  life  in  field,  forest,  and  stream  has 
its  roots  in  classic  literature.  It  is  well  worth  one's 
while  to  take  Theokritos  or  \^ergil  and  see  how  the 
homely  details  of  country  life  there  depicted  antici- 
pate the  school  of  writers  of  which  Thoreau  is  such 
a  conspicuous  example.     Hear  Theokritos  :  — 

"  There  we  reclined  on  deep  beds  of  fragrant  len- 
tisk,  lowly  strown,  and  rejoicing  we  lay  in  new-stript 
leaves  of  the  vine.  And  high  above  our  heads  waved 
many  a  poplar,  many  an  elm  tree,  while  close  at  hand 
the  sacred  water  from  the  nymphs'  own  cave  welled 
forth  with  murmur  musical.  On  shadowy  boughs 
the  burnt  cicalas  kept  their  chattering  toil ;  far  off 
the  little  owls  cried  in  the  thick  corn  brake,  the 
larks'  and  finches  were  singing,  the  ringdove  moaned, 
the  yellow  bees  were  flitting  about  the  springs.  All 
breathed  the  scent  of  the  opulent  summer,  of  the 
season  of  fruits ;  pears  at  our  feet  and  apples  by  our 
sides  were  rolling  plentiful ;  the  tender  branches  with 
wild  plums   laden   were   earthward    bowed,    and    the 


INTR  OD  UCTION.  ix 

four-year-old  pitch  seal  was  loosened  from  the  mouth 

of  the  wine-jars." 

And  Vergil :  — 

"  Here  among  familiar  rivers 

And  these  sacred  founts,  shalt  thou  take  the  shadowy  coolness. 

On  this  side,  a  hedge  along  the  neighboring  cross-road. 

Where  Hyblceati  bees  ever  feed  07i  the  flower  of  the  willow, 

Often  with  getitle  susurrus  to  fall  asleep  shall  persuade  thee. 

Yonder  beneath  the  high  rock,   the  pruner  shall  sing  to   the 
breezes  ; 

Nor  fneafiwhile  shall  thy  heart's  delight,  the  hoarse  wood  pig- 
eons, 

Nor  the  turtledove,  cease  to  mourn  from  aerial  elm  trees." 

There  are  dozens  of  passages  in  Thoreau  which  sound 
as  if  they  were  a  prose  paraphrase  of  classic  idyls 
—  at  least  six  such  in  the  first  twenty  pages  of  the 
present  book. 

The  roots  of  a  thing  are  not  the  flower ;  and  the 
modern  development,  and  particularly  the  develop- 
ment of  Nature-literature  in  prose  in  this  century,  is 
very  interesting.  Perhaps  we  may  regard  White  of 
Selborne  as  the  first  who  in  modern  times  brought  to 
the  study  of  Nature  carefully  adjusted  powers  of  obser- 
vation. But  during  the  past  half-century  Nature  has 
been  most  persistently  wooed  and  won.  There  comes 
into  literature  something  more  than  a  mere  detailed 
description  and  infinitesimal  analysis  :  it  is  a  deep, 
sympathetic  appreciation  of  beauty.  Says  Emerson  :  — 

' '  Nature  beats  in  perfect  tune 
And  rounds  with  rime  her  every  rune. 
Whether  she  work  in  land  or  sea 
Or  hide  underground  her  alchemy. 


X  IXTKODUCTIOX. 

"  Thou  canst  ?iot  wave  thy  staff  in  air 
Or  dip  thy  paddle  in  the  lake. 
But  it  carves  the  bow  of  beauty  there. 
And  the  ripples  in  rimes  the  oar  forsake.^' 

Without  a  touch  of  Pantheism  such  cult  of  Nature 
would  be  impossible.  The  finding  of  something 
beyond  Nature  makes  it  worth  while  to  study  so 
minutely  the  infinite  variety  of  leaf  and  flower  and 
bird-note.  It  is  better  than  the  worship  of  "  the  great 
God  Pan  '^  which  one  finds  in  the  poems  of  so  many  of 
the  poets  of  the  present  day.  If  that  filthy  and  dis- 
reputable old  character  should  really  come  at  their 
call,  they,  especially  the  woman  poets,  would  find 
his  hoofs  and  horns  as  unpleasant  as  they  seemed  to 
the  Hamadryads  of  old.  Bnt  the  affectation  after  all 
stands  for  something  and  covers  a  certain  genuine 
feeling.  It  is  sometimes  a  little  morbid  in  young 
poets,  but  the  young  poets  have  a  passionate  delight  in 
recondite  phenomena  whether  they  understand  them 
or  not,  and  there  is  a  hearty  welcome  for  the  interpret- 
ers who  have  gone  straight  to  Nature  herself,  have 
lived  her  life,  and  practised  in  her  language. 

These  interpreters  have  nearly  all  of  them  a  strong 
flavor  of  wildness  ;  they  are,  if  not  barbarians,  charac- 
terized by  some  of  the  better  qualities  of  barbarism. 
Thoreau  says,  "  There  is  in  my  nature,  methinks,  a 
singular  yearning  toward  all  wildness  "^ ;  and  farther 
on  in  the  same  Sunday  on  the  Concord  which  you 
will  shortly  read,  he  boasts  of  his  paganism  :  "  I  am 
not  sure  but  1  should  betake  myself  in  extremities  to 
the   liberal    divinities  of  Greece,  rather  than  to  my 


INTRODUCTION.  XI 

country's  God.  ...  In  my  Pantheon,  Pan  still 
reigns  in  his  pristine  glory,  with  his  ruddy  face,  his 
flowing  beard,  and  his  shaggy  body,  his  pipe  and 
his  crook,  his  nymph  Echo,  and  his  chosen  daughter 
lambe ;  the  Great  Pan  is  not  dead,  as  was  nnnored. 
Perhaps  of  all  the  gods  of  New  England  and  of  an- 
cient Greece,  I  am  most  constant  at  his  shrine." 

Of  Thoreau,  it  has  been  said  that  he  lived  and 
died  to  transfuse  external  Nature  into  human  words. 
His  personality  was  acutely  developed.  Now  indi- 
viduality is  well  worth  cultivating,  but  not  at  the 
expense  of  symmetry.  In  this  respect,  Apollo  is  a 
god  more  worthy  of  worship  than  the  horn-hoofed 
Pan  with  his  rural  pipes.  A  lopsided  genius  may 
do  great  things ;  we  forgive  him  for  his  lopsided- 
ness  and  put  up  with  his  idiosyncrasies.  Socrates  was 
not  even  picturesque,  and  did  not  clean  his  fingernails  ; 
he  would  have  done  just  as  much  good  and  had  a  far 
wider  personal  influence,  and  probably  lived  several 
years  longer  unmolested,  and  possibly  made  Xantippe 
a  very  different  wife  and  woman,  if  he  had  not  allowed 
his  eccentricities  to  get  such  a  hold  upon  him. 

In  Thoreau  also  we  have  to  distinguish  between  the 
man  and  the  writer.  His  critics  found  it  hard  to  do 
so.  Many  of  them  have  been  unduly  severe  upon 
him  because  they  did  not  really  understand  him  and 
never  knew  him.  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  says  of 
him  :  — 

'•Thoreau's  thin,  penetrating,  big-nosed  face,  even 
in  a  bad  woodcut,  conveys  some  hint  of  the  limitations 
of  his   mind  and  character.     With   his    almost  acid 


Xll  INTR  on  UC  TFOX. 

sharpness  of  insight,  with  his  almost  animal  dexterity 
in  act,  there  went  none  of  that  large  unconscious  ge- 
niality of  the  world's  heroes.  He  was  not  easy,  not 
ample,  not  urbane,  not  even  kind  ;  his  enjoyment  was 
hardly  smiling,  or  the  smile  w-as  not  broad  enough  to 
be  convincing ;  he  had  no  waste  lands  nor  kitchen- 
midden  in  his  nature,  but  was  all  improved  and  sharp- 
ened to  a  point."  So  he  goes  on  till  he  comes  to  the 
conclusion  —  ^'Thoreau  was  a  skulker!'' 

Emerson,  who  was  his  townsman,  and  house-mate, 
judged  him  just  as  unfairly.  James  Russell  Lowell 
ridiculed  him,  declaring  — ''  The  tub  of  Diogenes  had  a 
sounder  bottom!  '^  John  Burroughs  says  of  him,  '•  He 
was  a  man  devoid  of  compassion,  devoid  of  sympathy, 
devoid  of  patriotism,  as  these  words  are  usually  under- 
stood —  he  was  also  destitute  of  pity  and  love  (in 
the  human  sense)  and  of  many  other  traits  that  are 
thought  to  be  both  human  and  divine.''  A  recent 
historj'  of  American  literature  says  of  him,  "Not- 
withstanding his  life  among  large  things  and  the 
breadth  of  his  writing,  his  personal  character  was  not 
large.''  The  late  Francis  H.  Underwood  declared 
that  his  experiment  as  a  recluse  "'  was  the  experiment 
of  a  selfish  misanthrope,  the  freak  of  a  literary  bar- 
barian." Almost  all  accounts  of  Thoreau  assert  that 
he  was  so  full  of  love  for  the  universe  that  he  had  no 
room  for  love  for  his  fellow-men. 

And  yet  there  is  very  good  reason  to  believe  that 
this  disagreeable  notion  of  Thoreau  is  quite  unjust. 

In  reading  the  works  of  those  that  lived  long  ago,  w^e 
have  a  decided  advantage  over  their  contemporaries. 


INTR  OD  uc  riON.  xiii 

We  can  dissociate  their  works  from  their  lives. 
We  forget  the  dissoluteness  of  Burns  and  Byron ;  we 
care  not  if  Shakespeare  was  a  poacher.  This  fact  is 
a  strong  proof  that  as  a  general  thing  too  much  atten- 
tion is  paid  to  the  personal  element  in  the  study  of 
literature.  Perhaps  it  is  a  little  harder  in  the  case 
of  Thoreau  because  he  boasts  of  being  an  egotist. 
He  says  in  Walden :  "In  most  books  the  /  or  first 
person  is  omitted  ;  in  this  it  will  be  retained ;  that  in 
respect  to  egotism  is  the  main  difference.  We  do  not 
remember  that  it  is,  after  all,  always  the  first  person 
that  is  speaking.  I  should  not  talk  so  much  about 
myself  if  there  were  anybody  else  whom  I  knew  as 
well.'' 

Thus  he  paints  himself  in  his  books,  and  out  of  these 
various  pictures  we  can  make  a  composite  which  will 
approximate  to  the  truth.  And  yet  we  are  far  enough 
away  from  him  to  study  his  work  on  its  own  merits, 
and  to  apply  our  knowledge  of  his  hfe  only  as  far  as 
it  instructs  or  elucidates. 

He  was  of  mixed  lineage — French  and  Scotch.  His 
great-grandparents  were  well-to-do  citizens  of  St. 
Helier  in  the  island  of  Jersey.  A  younger  son  came 
to  New  England  in  1773,  and  married  a  Scotswoman, 
Jane  Burns.  Their  son,  John  Thoreau,  Jr.,  having 
failed  in  mercantile  business  and  lost  the  property  in- 
herited from  his  father,  became  a  pencil-maker  and 
acquired  a  competence  and  distinction.  He  lived  in 
Concord,  Massachusetts.  His  wife  was  Cynthia  Dun- 
bar, daughter  of  a  Keene  (New  Hampshire)  gentle- 
man —  a  witty,  intellectual  woman, ''  fond  of  dress  and 


XIV  Lym  OD  UC  TIO.V. 

fond  of  gossip,  a  great  talker/'  Once,  when  some  one 
remarked  a  resemblance  between  Thoreau's  style  and 
Emerson's,  she  replied, "  Yes,  Mr.  Emerson's  style  is 
like  my  son's."' 

Henry  David  was  the  third  child  of  these  parents, 
and  was  born  July  12,  181 7,  in  a  house  on  the  so- 
called  Virginia  Road  near  the  Bedford  Levels.  As  a 
child  he  was  afraid  of  thunder-showers :  yet  when 
told,  at  the  age  of  three,  that,  like  the  godly  men  of 
whom  he  read  in  his  religious  exercise  books,  he  too 
would  have  to  die,  was  not  alarmed,  but  declared 
that  he  did  not  want  to  go  to  heaven  because  he  could 
not  carry  his  sled  to  heaven  with  him.  He  was  a 
sturdily  honest  lad  ;  when  charged  with  taking  a  knife 
he  contented  himself  with  saying,  "  I  did  not  take 
it "' ;  and  when  the  real  culprit  was  found  and  he  was 
asked  why  he  did  not  sooner  explain,  he  still  repeated 
laconically,  '•  I  did  not  take  it."  The  boys  called 
him  ''The  Judge." 

At  sixteen  he  was  sent  to  Harvard,  having  been 
prepared  at  the  Concord  Academy.  During  his  vaca- 
tions he  taught  school.  Through  Emerson's  kindly 
offices  he  received  assistance  from  the  college  funds, 
but  his  dislike  of  routine  kept  him  from  winning  dis- 
tinction. He  refused  to  take  his  degree,  on  the  ground 
that  five  dollars  was  too  high  a  price  to  pay  for  it. 
The  Rev.  John  Weiss,  who  was  his  room-mate,  thus 
pictured  him  :  — 

••  He  was  cold  and  unimpressionable.  The  touch 
of  his  hand  was  moist  and  indifferent.  .  .  .  Revery 
hung  always  about  him,  and  not  so  loosely  ^s  the  odd 


INTR  OD  UCTION.  XV 

garments  which  the  pious  household  care  furnished. 
Thought  had  not  yet  awakened  his  countenance ;  it 
was  serene  and  rather  dull,  rather  plodding.  The 
hps  were  not  yet  firm,  there  was  almost  a  look  of 
smug  satisfaction  lurking  round  their  corners.  It  is 
plain  now  that  he  was  preparing  to  hold  his  future 
views  with  great  setness  and  personal  appreciation 
of  their  importance.  The  nose  was  prominent,  but 
its  curve  fell  fonvard  without  firmness  on  the  upper 
lip,  and  we  remember  him  as  looking  very  much  like 
some  Egyptian  sculptures  of  faces  —  large-featured, 
but  brooding,  immobile,  fixed  in  a  mystic  egoism." 

One  of  his  friends  remarked  of  him  :  '■'■  I  love 
Henry,  but  I  cannot  like  him.  ...  As  for  taking 
his  arm,  I  should  as  soon  think  of  taking  the  arm  of 
an  elm  tree."  He  made  few  friends.  Neither  his 
classmates  nor  his  teachers  regarded  him  as  likely  to 
attain  distinction.  In  a  letter  written  a  few  years 
after  graduation  he  says  that  what  he  learned  in  col- 
lege was  chiefly  to  express  himself.  Speaking  of  his 
college  course  in  navigation,  he  exclaimed,  "  Why,  if 
I  had  taken  one  turn  down  the  harbor,  I  should  have 
known  more  about  it." 

Even  then  he  had  resolved  to  '■'-  read  no  book,  take 
no  walk,  undertake  no  enterprise,  but  such  as  he 
could  endure  to  give  an  account  of  to  himself  and 
live  thus  deliberately  for  the  most  part."  This  giv- 
ing an  account  to  himself  of  his  life  gave  rise  to  his 
diaries,  which  with  Walden  and  the  present  book  are 
his  literary  legacy  to  posterity.  After  graduation  he 
taught  school  for  a  year  or  two ;  he  was  engaged  with 


XVI  INTR  OD  UC  TION. 

his  brother  in  keeping  the  Concord  Academy.  Like 
Alcott  he  determined  not  to  flog  his  pupils,  but  such 
leniency  did  not  suit  the  committee,  —  they  insisted 
that  Mr.  Thoreau  should  use  the  ferule.  He  put  this 
stringency  into  immediate  practice,  and  feruled  six 
pupils  after  school  one  day,  —  one  of  them  was  the 
maid-servant  in  his  own  house.  What  the  effect  on 
their  domestic  affairs  was  is  not  on  record,  but  he 
shortly  afterwards  resigned  his  position.  He  also 
withdrew  from  Dr.  Ripley's  congregation ;  in  this 
respect  he  was  the  true  type  of  the  anarchist.  He 
refused  to  pay  the  church  tax  on  the  ground  that  he 
did  not  see  why  the  schoolmaster  should  support  the 
priest  any  more  than  the  priest  should  support  the 
schoolmaster:  he  avoided  the  penalty  by  signing  a 
statement  that  he  was  not  a  member  of  the  church. 
He  resolved  to  reduce  his  necessities  to  the  lowest 
terms ;  his  wants  were  few,  his  means  were  slender. 
He  had  a  natural  aptitude  for  all  kinds  of  mechanical 
work.  For  a  time  he  devoted  himself  to  the  ancestral 
work  of  making  lead-pencils,  and  succeeded  in  pro- 
ducing a  better  kind  than  was  in  the  market.  He 
obtained  certificates  from  dealers  and  artists  that  his 
work  was  equal  to  that  of  the  best  London  makers. 
There  he  stopped :  '•  I  shall  never  make  another 
pencil,"  said  he ;  '•  why  should  I  ?  I  would  not  do 
again  what  I  have  done  once.''  Yet  the  exigencies 
of  life  compelled  him  to  break  that  rash  vow ;  he 
had  to  do  something  to  earn  his  daily  bread.  He 
preferred  the  outdoor  occupation  of  surveying;  he 
delighted  in  reckoning  measures  and   distances,  the 


INTRODUCTION.  XVll 

size  of  trees,  the  depths  and  surfaces  of  ponds  and 
rivers ;  so  it  was  natural  for  him  to  take  up  the  art  of 
mensuration  for  his  neighbors  :  his  accuracy  and  skill 
became  proverbial,  he  had  all  the  work  he  needed. 
He  himself  put  it  in  his  quaint  characteristic  way, 
'"•  To  tell  the  truth,  I  saw  an  advertisement  for  able- 
bodied  seamen,  when  I  was  a  boy  sauntering  in  my 
native  port,  and  as  soon  as  I  came  of  age  I  embarked. ■'' 
He  recapitulates  his  favorite  enterprises :  "  To 
anticipate  not  the  sunrise  and  the  dawn  merely,  but 
if  possible  Nature  herself.  How  many  mornings. 
Summer  and  Winter,  before  yet  any  neighbor  was 
stirring  about  his  business,  have  I  been  about  mine. 
No  doubt  many  of  my  townspeople  have  met  me 
returning  from  this  enterprise — farmers  starting  for 
Boston  in  the  twilight,  or  wood-choppers  going  to 
their  work.  It  is  true  I  never  assisted  the  sun  mate- 
rially in  his  rising,  but  doubt  not  it  was  of  the  last 
importance  only  to  be  present  at  it.  .  .  .  So  many 
Autumn  and  Winter  days  spent  outside  the  town, 
trying  to  hear  what  was  in  the  wind,  to  hear  and 
carry  it  express.  I  well-nigh  sunk  all  my  capital  in 
it,  and  lost  my  own  breath  into  the  bargain,  running 
in  the  face  of  it.  If  it  had  concerned  either  of  the 
political  parties,  depend  upon  it,  it  would  have  ap- 
peared in  the  gazette  with  the  earliest  intelligence. 
At  other  times  watchin^from  the  observatory  of  some 
cliff  or  tree,  to  telegraph  any  new  arrival,  or  waiting 
at  evening  on  the  hill-top  for  the  sky  to  fall,  that  I 
might  catch  something,  though  I  never  caught  much, 
and    that,  manna-wise,  would   resolve    again    in   the 


XVUl  INTRODUCTION. 

sun.  For  a  long  time  I  was  a  reporter  to  a  journal 
of  no  great  circulation,  whose  editor  has  never  yet 
seen  fit  to  print  the  bulk  of  my  communications,  and 
as  is  too  common  with  writers  I  got  only  my  labors 
for  ray  pains.  However,  in  this  case  my  pains  were 
their  own  reward." 

This  '-journal,*'  for  which  he  was  the  reporter,  was 
his  diarj',  which  he  kept  after  the  manner  of  Emer- 
son, jotting  down  in  it  briefly  or  voluminously  his 
observations  and  comments,  and  from  which  he  drew 
as  from  a  reservoir  when  he  wished  to  write  an  essay 
or  a  book.  His  journals  comprised  thirty  large  vol- 
umes, and  extend  from  1837  till  1862.  His  literary 
executor,  the  late  H.  G.  O.  Blake,  made  up  from 
these  journals  a  perfect  calendar  of  the  year,  giving 
minute  observations  on  the  changing  seasons  and 
all  the  graces  thereof. 

"  Nothing,"  says  Thoreau,  "  can  shock  a  brave  man 
but  dulness."  He  was  never  dull  to  himself.  He  had 
his  duties  to  perform,  and  this  minute  chronicling 
of  his  observations  was  no  small  part  of  them.  "For 
many  years,"  he  says,  "  I  was  self-appointed  inspector 
of  snowstorms  and  rainstorms,  and  did  my  duty  faith- 
fully ;  surveyor,  if  not  of  highways,  then  of  forest 
paths,  and  all  across-lot  routes,  keeping  them  open 
and  ravines  bridged  and  passable  at  all  seasons, 
where  the  public  heel  had  testified  to  their  utility. 
...  I  have  watered  the  red  huckleberry,  the  sand 
cherry,  and  the  nettle  tree,  the  red  pine  and  the  black 
ash,  the  white  grape,  and  the  yellow  violet,  which 
might  have  else  perished  in  dry   seasons.    ...     In 


INTR  OD  UCTION.  XIX 

short,"  he  concludes,  "  I  went  on  thus  for  a  long  time, 
I  may  say  it  without  boasting,  faithfully  minding  my 
business,  till  it  became  more  and  more  evident  that 
my  townsmen  would  not  after  all  admit  me  into  the 
list  of  town  officers,  nor  make  my  place  a  sinecure 
with  a  moderate  allowance." 

He  expressed  the  same  idea  in  his  rugged,  in- 
artistic rhymes :  — 

'^  Great  God,  I  ask  Thee  for  no  vie aner  pelf 
Than  that  I  may  not  disappoint  myself, 
That  in  my  action  I  may  soar  as  high 
As  I  cannot  discern  with  this  clear  eye. 

"And  next  in  value,  which  Thy  kindtiess  le?ids, 
That  I  may  greatly  disappoint  my  friends  : 
Howe'er  they  think  or  hope  that  it  may  be 
They  tnay  not  dream  how  Thou  'st  disiinguisht  vie." 

They  did  not  dream  it  until  long  after  he  was  dead, 
when  to  their  surprise  this  man,  whom  some  of  them 
at  least  thought  to  be  an  idler,  was  found  to  be  more 
and  more  the  glory  of  the  town. 

Thoreau  was  rewarded  by  Nature  as  few  men  have 
been  rewarded  in  their  fealty.  He  had  amazingly 
quick  senses  and  almost  miraculous  power  of  insight ; 
he  could  make  his  way  through  the  darkest  woods 
at  darkest  night,  where  other  men  would  have  been 
lost  at  high  noon.  His  keenness  of  scent  was  like 
a  dog's.  He  needed  no  watch  or  almanac  :  the  time 
of  day  he  could  tell  by  his  eye ;  the  time  of  the  year 
he  could  tell  to  a  day  by  the  curious  clock  of  the 
changing  flowers.     He  could  measure  distances  and 


XX  INTR  OD  UCTION. 

gauge  depths  without  Gunter's  line  or  plummet.  He 
could  infallibly  grasp  a  dozen  lead-pencils  out  of  a 
mixed  heap.  He  could  measure  bulk  by  silent  com- 
putation. 

Moreover,  Mother  Nature  taught  her  other  children 
—  the  birds  and  animals  —  to  have  no  fear  of  their 
human  brother.  He  was  trained  in  the  school  of 
Hiawatha.  Squirrels  would  leap  down  from  forest 
trees  to  his  shoulder,  and  nestle  in  his  pocket.  He 
would  visit  the  festive  woodchuck  in  her  holes ; 
she  regarded  it  as  no  insult  if  he  reached  in  his 
arm  and  pulled  her  out  by  the  tail.  More  than  once, 
when  he  was  out  on  the  Concord  River,  he  was  seen 
to  put  his  hand  down  among  the  lily-pads  and  lift 
out  a  glittering  fish ;  he  knew  where  they  nested, 
and  they  loved  to  take  their  little  foretaste  of  im- 
mortality from  his  gentle  hand.  He  knew  the  haunts 
of  all  the  wild  creatures  of  the  woods  and  fields. 
Everything  came  ready  to  his  wish.  Once,  when  out 
walking,  a  friend  asked  him  where  Indian  arrow- 
heads could  be  found. 

"  Everywhere,"  was  his  reply,  and.  stooping  down, 
picked  one  up. 

When  he  sprained  his  ankle  in  Tuckerman's 
Ravine  he  found,  all  ready  for  application,  the  leaves 
of  the  Arnica  mollis.  "It  was  a  pleasure  to  walk  with 
him,"  said  Emerson.  "  He  knew  the  country  like 
a  bird,  and  passed  through  it  as  freely  by  paths  of 
his  own.  He  knew  every  track  in  the  snow  or  on 
the  ground,  and  what  creature  had  taken  this  path 
before  him.   .  .   .    Under  Kis  arm  he  carried  an  old 


introduction:  xxi 

music-book  in  which  to  press  plants  ;  in  his  pocket, 
his  diary  and  pencil,  a  spy-glass  for  birds,  micro- 
scopes, jack-knife,  and  twine.  He  wore  a  straw  hat, 
stout  shoes,  strong  gray  trowsers  to  brave  scrub 
oaks  and  smilax  and  to  climb  a  tree  for  a  hawk  or 
squirrel's  nest.  He  waded  into  a' pool  for  the  water 
plants,  and  his  strong  legs  were  no  insignificant  part 
of  his  equipment." 

He  was  sometimes  as  brusque  as  a  hedgehog.  He 
would  not  throw  away  his  walks  on  uncongenial  per- 
sons, and  he  did  not  hesitate  to  express  himself  frankly, 
like  the  weather.  Some  one  sent  him  an  invitation  : 
"  Such  are  my  engagements  to  myself  that  I  dare  not 
promise,*'  was  his  reply. 

In  the  autumn  of  1839  ^'^^  '^^^  ^'^'^  brother  made  an 
excursion  down  the  sluggish  Concord,  to  the  Merri- 
mac,  and  up  the  Merrimac  to  its  source  in  the  White 
Mountains  —  two  days  on  the  one  and  four  days  on 
the  other.  Almost  every  incident,  almost  every  phe- 
nomenon, was  chronicled  and  made  to  form  the  intro- 
duction to  an  essay.  Now  he  tells  scientifically  of  the 
habits  of  the  genera  of  the  finny  tribes  inhabiting  the 
stream  ;  the  sight  of  a  church  leads  him  to  a  soliloquy 
on  rituals  ;  transcendental  reveries  are  interrupted  by 
rugged  and  unrhythmical  and  carelessly  constructed 
jingles  of  verse.  Such  a  style  can  be  only  superficially 
compared  to  Emerson's.     Listen  to  Emerson  :  — 

''  Whenever  snow  falls,  or  water  flows,  or  birds  fly. 
whenever  day  and  night  meet  in  twilight,  whenever 
the  blue  heaven  is  hung  by  clouds,  or  sown  with  stars, 
wherever    are    forms    with    transparent    boundaries, 


XXll  INTR  OD  UC  TION. 

wherever  are  outlets  into  celestial  space,  wherever  is 
danger  and  awe  and  love,  there  is  beauty,  plenteous 
as  rain,  shed  for  thee,  and  though  thou  shouldst  walk 
the  world  over,  thou  shalt  not  be  able  to  find  a  condi- 
tion inopportune  or  ignoble.'' 

There  will  be  found  in  Thoreau  thoughts  not  unlike 
that,  but  where  in  Emerson  a  bird  is  a  bird,  and  a 
beast  a  beast,  Thoreau  tickets  the  bird  with  its  scien- 
tific name  and  relates  its  habits  and  distinguishes  it 
from  all  other  birds.  Emerson  is  vaguely  general ; 
Thoreau  accurate  and  particular.  In  that  respect  they 
are  a  world  apart,  and  the  resemblance  between  them 
is  only  accidental  and  superficial :  only  alike  are  they 
in  their  attempts  at  poetic  efiiatus,  and  in  those  Emer- 
son, in  spite  of  his  faulty  rhythms,  is  vastly  superior 
to  Thoreau,  just  as  Thoreau,  in  all  that  concerns  Na- 
ture, is  far  more  entertaining  than  Emerson  because  he 
is  the  reporter  for  her.  Both  of  them  quote  Hafiz  and 
the  Bagvhat  Gita  and  all  poets  with  transcendental  bias. 

The  boat  in  which  the  Thoreau  brothers  made  their 
famous  inland  voyage  afterwards  became  Hawthorne's, 
and  is  mentioned  in  The  Mosses  from  an  Old 
Maftse,  and  the  fruit  of  the  excursion  was  Thoreau's 
first  volume.  He  got  it  ready  for  the  press  while  liv- 
ing in  his  hut  by  Walden  Pond.  Parts  of  it  had 
already  appeared  in  T/ie  Dial,  but  when  he  was  asked 
to  offer  a  memoir  of  his  observations  to  the  Natural 
History  Society,  he  exclaimed:  "Why  should  I? 
To  detach  the  description  from  its  connection  in  my 
mind  would  make  it  no  longer  true  or  valuable  to  me, 
and  they  do  not  wish  what  "belongs  with  it." 


JNTRODUCTIO.Y.  xxiii 

The  manuscript  went  from  publisher  to  publisher, 
and  he  finally  borrowed  the  money  necessary  to  bring 
it  out.  It  was  issued  in  the  summer  of  1849,  by  James 
Munroe  and  Company.  Though  it  received  some 
complimentary  notices,  it  did  not  pay  its  expenses,  and 
Thoreau  had  to  earn  money  by  surveying  in  order  to 
make  good  the  loss.  Four  years  after  it  was  published 
Thoreau  was  asked  to  remove  the  unsold  copies  from 
the  cellar  of  the  publishing  house.  Seventy-five  had 
been  given  away  ;  215  had  been  sold,  and  the  rest  were 
sent  to  Thoreau  by  express.  He  confided  to  his  diary, 
October  28,  1853,  that  "he  had  a  library  of  nearly 
900  volumes,  over  700  of  which  he  had  written 
himself." 

It  did  not  affect  his  spirits  ;  he  took  the  public  in- 
difference philosophically  ;  he  himself  saw  the  good  that 
was  in  it — its  outdoor,  or,  as  he  calls  it,  "  hypaethral," 
character. 

The  world,  which  stones  its  living  prophets  and 
lets  its  poets  beg  their  bread,  has  grown  aware 
of  its  charm.  Now  everything  from  his  pen  is  treas- 
ured, as  the  legacy  of  a  prophet  and  a  poet.  He  did 
not  live  to  see  his  growing  popularity.  In  1841  he 
went  to  live  with  Emerson  —  Apollo  serving  Admetus. 
In  1844  he  borrowed  an  axe  of  Alcott  and  built  his 
famous  little  hut  by  Walden  pond,  and  underwent 
the  experiences  detailed  in  the  book  that  bears  that 
name  —  the  only  other  that  was  published  during  his 
lifetime.  That  same  year  he  refused  to  pay  his  poll- 
tax,  and  was  lodged  in  jail. 

••  Henry^  why  are  you  here?''  asked  Emerson. 


XXIV  INTRODUCTION. 

"  Why  are  you  not  here  ?  "  was  the  Yankee  answer 
of  the  young  anarchist. 

In  1846  he  made  his  excursion  to  the  Maine  woods 
and  explored  the  region  around  Mt.  Ktaadn.  He 
also  made  an  excursion  to  Cape  Cod.  and  the  account 
of  that  has  become  classic.  He  was  interested  in  the 
abolition  movement,  and  it  was  whispered  that  the 
Walden  hut  was  a  station  of  the  Underground  Rail- 
way. When  John  Brown  was  tried  and  executed, 
Thoreau  called  his  townspeople  together  and  gave 
them  a  ringing  address.  His  cry  for  liberty  placed 
him  in  the  vanguard  of  the  liberals.  At  the  outbreak 
of  the  War  of  the  Rebellion  his  health  had  begun  to 
fail.  In  1 861  he  went  to  Minnesota,  but  the  climate 
there  did  not  work  the  hoped-for  benefit.  After  a 
long  illness,  borne  with  patience,  he  died  on  May  6, 
1862. 

No  one  can  read  the  Concord  and  Merrimack 
Rivers  without  becoming  fond  of  Thoreau ;  the 
mixture  of  humor,  of  sound  common  sense,  of  wide 
information,  of  broad  reading,  of  deep  thought,  of 
liberal  theology,  and  above  all  of  genuine  love  of 
Nature,  all  couched  in  a  singularly  clear  and  pellucid 
style  —  not  faultless,  but  simple  and  definite — makes 
it  a  perpetual  delight,  not  necessarily  for  consecutive 
reading,  but  for  literary  browsing.  One  may  pick  it 
up  anywhere  and  find  it  full  of  suggestion  and  charm. 
It  has  become  one  of  the  classics  of  out-of-door 
literature. 

NATHAN    HASKELL    DOLE. 


CONCORD    RIVER. 


'  Beneath  low  hills,  in  the  broad  interval 
Through  which  at  will  our  Indian  rivulet 
Winds  mindful  still  of  sannup  and  of  squaw, 
Whose  pipe  and  arrow  oft  the  plough  unburies, 
Here,  in  pine  houses,  built  of  new-fallen  trees, 
Supplanters  of  the  tribe,  the  farmers  dwell." 

Emerso7i. 


The  Musketaquid,  or  Grass-ground  River,  though 
probably  as  old  as  the  Nile  or  Euphrates,  did  not  begin 
to  have  a  place  in  civilized  history,  until  the  fame  of 
its  grassy  meadows  and  its  fish  attracted  settlers  out 
of  England  in  1635,  when  it  received  the  other  but 
kindred  name  of  Concord  from  the  first  plantation 
on  its  banks,  which  appears  to  have  been  commenced 
in  a  spirit  of  peace  and  harmony.  It  will  be  Grass- 
ground  River  as  long  as  grass  grows  and  water  runs 
here ;  it  will  be  Concord  River  only  while  men  lead 
peaceable  lives  on  its  banks.  To  an  extinct  race  it 
was  grass-ground,  where  they  hunted  and  fished,  and 
it  is  still  perennial  grass-ground  to  Concord  farmers, 
who  own  the  Great  Meadows,  and  get  the  hay  from 
year  to  year.  "  One  branch  of  it,"  according  to  the 
Historian  of  Concord,  for  I  love  to  quote  so  good 
authority,  "rises  in  the  south  part  of  Hopkinton,  and 
another  from  a  pond  and  a  large  cedar  swamp  in  West- 
borough,"  and  flowing  between  Hopkinton  and  South- 
borough,  through  Framingham,  and  l^etween  Sudl^ury 
I 


2       -■/    WEEK   OX   THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

and  Wayland,  where  it  is  sometimes  called  Sudbury 
river,  it  enters  Concord  at  the  south  part  of  the  town, 
and  after  receiving  the  North  or  Assabeth  river,  which 
has  its  source  a  little  further  to  the  north  and  west, 
goes  out  at  the  north-east  angle,  and  flowing  between 
Bedford  and  Carlisle,  and  through  Billerica.  empties 
into  the  Merrimack  at  Lowell.  In  Concord  it  is,  in 
summer,  from  four  to  fifteen  feet  deep,  and  from  one 
hundred  to  three  hundred  feet  wide,  but  in  the  spring 
freshets,  when  it  overflows  its  banks,  it  is  in  some 
places  nearly  a  mile  wide.  Between  Sudbury  and 
Wayland  the  meadows  acquire  their  greatest  breadth, 
and  when  covered  with  water,  they  form  a  handsome 
chain  of  shallow  vernal  lakes,  resorted  to  by  numer- 
ous gulls  and  ducks.  Just  above  Sherman's  Bridge, 
between  these  towns,  is  the  largest  expanse,  and  when 
the  wind  blows  freshly  in  a  raw  March  day,  heaving 
up  the  surface  into  dark  and  sober  billows  or  regular 
swells,  skirted  as  it  is  in  the  distance  with  alder  swamps 
and  smoke-like  maples,  it  looks  like  a  smaller  Lake 
Huron,  and  is  very  pleasant  and  exciting  for  a  lands- 
man to  row  or  sail  over.  The  farm-houses  along  the 
Sudbury  shore,  which  rises  gently  to  a  considerable 
height,  command  fine  water  prospects  at  this  season. 
The  shore  is  more  flat  on  the  Wayland  side,  and  this 
town  is  the  greatest  loser  by  the  flood.  Its  farmers 
tell  me  that  thousands  of  acres  are  flooded  now,  since 
the  dams  have  been  erected,  where  they  remember  to 
have  seen  the  white  honeysuckle  or  clover  growing 
once,  and  they  could  go  dry  with  shoes  only  in  sum- 
mer. Now  there  is  nothing  but  blue-joint  and  sedge 
and  cut-grass  there,  standing  in  water  all  the  year 
round.  For  a  long  time,  they  made  the  most  of  the 
driest  season  to   get   their*  hay,  working   sometimes 


CONCORD  RIVER.  3 

till  nine  o'clock  at  night,  sedulously  paring  with  their 
scythes  in  the  twilight  round  the  hummocks  left  by 
the  ice ;  but  now  it  is  not  worth  the  getting,  when 
they  can  come  at  it,  and  they  look  sadly  round  to 
their  wood-lots  and  upland  as  a  last  resource. 

It  is  worth  the  while  to  make  a  voyage  up  this 
stream,  if  you  go  no  farther  than  Sudbury,  only  to 
see  how  much  country  there  is  in  the  rear  of  us ; 
great  hills,  and  a  hundred  brooks,  and  farm-houses, 
and  barns,  and  hay-stacks,  you  never  saw  before,  and 
men  everywhere,  Sudbury,  that  is  Southborough  men, 
and  Wayland,  and  Nine-Acre-Corner  men,  and  Bound 
Rock,  where  four  towns  bound  on  a  rock  in  the  river, 
Lincoln,  Wayland,  Sudbury,  Concord.  Many  waves 
are  there  agitated  by  the  wind,  keeping  nature  fresh, 
the  spray  blowing  in  your  face,  reeds  and  rushes 
waving;  ducks  by  the  hundred,  all  uneasy  in  the 
surf,  in  the  raw  wind,  just  ready  to  rise,  and  now 
going  off  with  a  clatter  and  a  whistling,  like  riggers 
straight  for  Labrador,  flying  against  the  stiff  gale 
with  reefed  wings,  or  else  circling  round  first,  with 
all  their  paddles  briskly  moving,  just  over  the  surf, 
to  reconnoitre  you  before  they  leave  these  parts ; 
gulls  wheeling  overhead,  muskrats  swimming  for  dear 
life,  wet  and  cold,  with  no  fire  to  warm  them  by  that 
you  know  of;  their  labored  homes  rising  here  and 
there  like  hay-stacks ;  and  countless  mice  and  moles 
and  winged  titmice  along  the  sunny,  windy  shore ; 
cranberries  tossed  on  the  waves  and  heaving  up  on 
the  beach,  their  little  red  skiffs  beating  about  among  the 
alders ;  —  such  healthy  natural  tumult  as  proves  the 
last  day  is  not  yet  at  hand.  And  there  stand  all 
around  the  alders,  and  birches,  and  oaks,  and  maples 
full  of  glee  and  sap,  holding  in  their  buds  until  the 


4      A    WEEK   OiV   THE    CO.VCORD   RIVER. 

waters  subside.  You  shall  perhaps  run  aground  on 
Cranberry  Island,  only  some  spires  of  last  year's 
pipegrass  above  water,  to  show  where  the  danger  is, 
and  get  as  good  a  freezing  there  as  anywhere  on  the 
North-west  Coast.  I  never  voyaged  so  far  in  all  my 
life.  You  shall  see  men  you  never  heard  of  before, 
whose  names  you  don't  know,  going  away  down  through 
the  meadows  with  long  ducking  guns,  with  water-tight 
boots,  wading  through  the  fowl-meadow  grass,  on  bleak, 
wintry,  distant  shores,  with  guns  at  half  cock,  and  they 
shall  see  teal,  blue-winged,  green-winged,  shelldrakes, 
whistlers,  black  ducks,  ospreys,  and  many  other  wild 
and  noble  sights  before  night,  such  as  they  who  sit 
in  parlors  never  dream  of.  You  shall  see  rude  and 
sturdy,  experienced  and  wise  men,  keeping  their 
castles,  or  teaming  up  their  summer's  wood,  or  chop- 
ping alone  in  the  woods,  men  fuller  of  talk  and  rare 
adventure  in  the  sun  and  wind  and  rain,  than  a  chest- 
nut is  of  meat ;  who  were  out  not  only  in  '75  and  18 12, 
but  have  been  out  every  day  of  their  lives ;  greater 
men  than  Homer,  or  Chaucer,  or  Shakspeare,  only 
they  never  got  time  to  say  so ;  they  never  took  to 
the  way  of  writing.  Look  at  their  fields,  and  imag- 
ine what  they  might  write,  if  ever  they  should  put 
pen  to  paper.  Or  what  have  they  not  written  on  the 
face  of  the  earth  already,  clearing,  and  burning,  and 
scratching,  and  harrowing,  and  plowing,  and  subsoil- 
ing,  in  and  in,  and  out  and  out,  and  over  and  over, 
again  and  again,  erasing  what  they  had  already  writ- 
ten for  want  of  parchment. 

As  yesterday  and  the  historical  ages  are  past,  as  the 
work  of  to-day  is  present,  so  some  flitting  perspectives, 
and  demi-experiences  of  the  life  that  is  in  nature  are 
in  time  veritably  future,  or   rather   outside   to   time, 


CONCORD   RIVER.  5 

perennial,  young,  divine,  in  the  wind  and  rain  which 
never  die. 

The  respectable  folks, — 

Where  dwell  they  ? 

They  whisper  in  the  oaks, 

And  they  sigh  in  the  hay  ; 

Summer  and  winter,  night  and  day, 

Out  on  the  meadow,  there  dwell  they. 

They  never  die, 

Nor  snivel,  nor  cry, 

Nor  ask  our  pity 

With  a  wet  eye. 

A  sound  estate  they  ever  mend, 

To  every  asker  readily  lend ; 

To  the  ocean  wealth. 

To  the  meadow  health, 

To  Time  his  length, 

To  the  rocks  strength, 

To  the  stars  light, 

To  the  weary  night, 

To  the  busy  day. 

To  the  idle  play ; 

And  so  their  good  cheer  never  ends, 

For  all  are  their  debtors,  and  all  their  friends. 

Concord  River  is  remarkable  for  the  gentleness  of 
its  current,  which  is  scarcely  perceptible,  and  some 
have  referred  to  its  influence  the  proverbial  modera- 
tion of  the  inhabitants  of  Concord,  as  exhibited  in  the 
Revolution,  and  on  later  occasions.  It  has  been  pro- 
posed, that  the  town  should  adopt  for  its  coat  of  arms 
a  field  verdant,  with  the  Concord  circling  nine  times 
round.  I  have  read  that  a  descent  of  an  eighth  of  an 
inch  in  a  mile  is  sufficient  to  produce  a  flow.  Our 
river  has,  probably,  very  near  the  smallest  allowance. 
The  story  is  current,  at  any  rate,  though  I  believe  that 
strict  history  will  not  bear  it  out,  that  the  only  bridge 


6       A    WEEK   ON   THE    CONCORD  RIVER. 

ever  carried  away  on  the  main  branch,  within  the  hmits 
of  the  town,  was  driven  up  stream  by  the  wind.  But 
wherever  it  makes  a  sudden  bend  it  is  shallower  and 
swifter,  and  asserts  its  title  to  be  called  a  river.  Com- 
pared with  the  other  tributaries  of  the  Merrimack,  it 
appears  to  have  been  properly  named  Musketaquid, 
or  Meadow  River,  by  the  Indians.  For  the  most  part, 
it  creeps  through  broad  meadows,  adorned  with  scat- 
tered oaks,  where  the  cranberry  is  found  in  abundance, 
covering  the  ground  like  a  moss-bed.  A  row  of 
sunken  dwarf  willows  borders  the  stream  on  one  or 
both  sides,  while  at  a  greater  distance  the  meadow  is 
skirted  with  maples,  alders,  and  other  fluviatile  trees, 
overrun  with  the  grape  vine,  which  bears  fmit  in  its 
season,  purple,  red,  white,  and  other  grapes.  Still 
further  from  the  stream,  on  the  edge  of  the  firm  land, 
are  seen  the  gray  and  white  dwellings  of  the  inhabit- 
ants. According  to  the  valuation  of  1831,  there  were 
in  Concord  two  thousand  one  hundred  and  eleven 
acres,  or  about  one-seventh  of  the  whole  territory,  in 
meadow  ;  this  standing  next  in  the  list  after  pasturage 
and  unimproved  lands,  and,  judging  from  the  returns 
of  previous  years,  the  meadow  is  not  reclaimed  so  fast 
as  the  woods  are  cleared. 

The  sluggish  artery  of  the  Concord  meadows  steals 
thus  unobserved  through  the  town,  without  a  murmur 
or  a  pulse-beat,  its  general  course  from  south-west  to 
north-east,  and  its  length  about  fifty  miles ;  a  huge 
volume  of  matter,  ceaselessly  rolling  through  the 
plains  and  valleys  of  the  substantial  earth,  with  the 
moccasined  tread  of  an  Indian  warrior,  making  haste 
from  the  high  places  of  the  earth  to  its  ancient  reser- 
voir. The  murmurs  of  many  a  famous  river  on  the 
other  side  of  the  globe  reach  even  to  us  here,  as  to 


CONCORD  RIVER.  7 

more  distant  dwellers  on  its  banks ;  many  a  poet's 
stream  floating  the  helms  and  shields  of  heroes  on  its 
bosom.  The  Xanthus  or  Scamander  is  not  a  mere 
dry  channel  and  bed  of  a  mountain  torrent,  but  fed  by 
the  ever-flowing  springs  of  fame  ;  — 

"  And  thou  Simois,  that  as  an  anowe,  clere 
Through  Troy  rennest,  aie  downward  to  the  sea;"  — 

and  1  trust  that  I  may  be  allowed  to  associate  our 
muddy  but  much  abused  Concord  River  with  the  most 
famous  in  history. 

"  Sure  there  are  poets  which  did  never  dream 
Upon  Parnassus,  nor  did  taste  the  stream 
Of  HeHcon  ;  we  therefore  may  suppose 
Those  made  not  poets,  but  the  poets  those." 

The  Mississippi,  the  Ganges,  and  the  Nile,  those 
journeying  atoms  from  the  Rocky  Mountains,  the 
Himmaleh,  and  Mountains  of  the  Moon,  have  a  kind 
of  personal  importance  in  the  annals  of  the  world. 
The  heavens  are  not  yet  drained  over  their  sources, 
but  the  Mountains  of  the  Moon  still  send  their  annual 
tribute  to  the  Pasha  without  fail,  as  they  did  to  the 
Pharaohs,  though  he  must  collect  the  rest  of  his  reve- 
nue at  the  point  of  the  sword.  Rivers  must  have  been 
the  guides  which  conducted  the  footsteps  of  the  first 
travellers.  They  are  the  constant  lure,  when  they 
flow  by  our  doors,  to  distant  enterprise  and  adventure, 
and,  by  a  natural  impulse,  the  dwellers  on  their  banks 
will  at  length  accompany  their  currents  to  the  low- 
lands of  the  globe,  or  explore  at  their  invitation  the 
interior  of  continents.  They  are  the  natural  high- 
ways of  all  nations,  not  only  levelling  the  ground,  and 
removing  obstacles  from  the  path  of  the  traveller, 
quenching  his  thirst,  and  bearing  him  on  their  bos- 


8       ./    WEEK   ON   THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

oms,  but  conducting  him  through  the  most  interesting 
scenery,  the  most  populous  portions  of  the  globe, 
and  where  the  animal  and  vegetable  kingdoms  attain 
their  greatest  perfection. 

I  had  often  stood  on  the  banks  of  the  Concord, 
watching  the  lapse  of  the  current,  an  emblem  of  all 
progress,  following  the  same  law  with  the  system,  with 
time,  and  all  that  is  made ;  the  weeds  at  the  bottom 
gently  bending  down  the  stream,  shaken  by  the  watery 
wmd,  still  planted  where  their  seeds  had  sunk,  but  ere 
long  to  die  and  go  down  likewise ;  the  shining  peb- 
bles, not  yet  anxious  to  better  their  condition,  the 
chips  and  weeds,  and  occasional  logs  and  stems  of 
trees,  that  floated  past,  fulfilling  their  fate,  were  ob- 
jects of  singular  interest  to  me,  and  at  last  I  resolved 
to  launch  myself  on  its  bosom,  and  float  whither  it 
would  bear  me. 


SATURDAY. 

"  Come,  come,  my  lovely  fair,  and  let  us  try 
These  rural  delicates." 

Invitation  to  the  Soul.     Quarks. 

At  length,  on  Saturday,  the  last  day  of  August, 
1839,  '^^^  ^^"^'0'  brothers,  and  natives  of  Concord, 
weighed  anchor  in  this  river  port ;  for  Concord,  too, 
lies  under  the  sun,  a  port  of  entry  and  departure  for 
the  bodies  as  well  as  the  souls  of  men ;  one  shore  at 
least  exempted  from  all  duties  but  such  as  an  honest 
man  will  gladly  discharge.  A  warm  drizzling  rain 
had  obscured  the  morning,  and  threatened  to  delay 
our  voyage,  but  at  length  the  leaves  and  grass  were 
dried,  and  it  came  out  a  mild  afternoon,  as  serene  and 
fresh  as  if  nature  were  maturing  some  greater  scheme 
of  her  own.  After  this  long  dripping  and  oozing  from 
every  pore,  she  began  to  respire  again  more  healthily 
than  ever.  So  with  a  vigorous  shove  we  launched 
our  boat  from  the  bank,  while  the  flags  and  bulrushes 
curtseyed  a  God-speed,  and  dropped  silently  down 
the  stream. 

Our  boat,  which  had  cost  us  a  week's  labor  in  the 
spring,  was  in  form  like  a  fisherman^s  dory,  fifteen 
feet  long  by  three  and  a  half  in  breadth  at  the  widest 
part,  painted  green  below,  with  a  border  of  blue,  with 
reference  to  the  two  elements  in  which  it  was  to  spend 
its  existence.     It  had  been  loaded  the  evening:  before 


10       A    WEEK   ON    THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

at  our  door,  half  a  mile  from  the  river,  with  potatoes 
and  melons  from  a  patch  which  we  had  cultivated, 
and  a  few  utensils,  and  was  provided  with  wheels  in 
order  to  be  rolled  around  falls,  as  well  as  with  two 
sets  of  oars,  and  several  slender  poles  for  shoving  in 
shallow  places,  and  also  two  masts,  one  of  which 
served  for  a  tent-pole  at  night ;  for  a  buffalo  skin  was 
to  be  our  bed,  and  a  tent  of  cotton  cloth  our  roof. 
It  was  strongly  built  but  heavy,  and  hardly  of  better 
model  than  usual.  If  rightly  made,  a  boat  would  be  a 
sort  of  amphibious  animal,  a  creature  of  two  elements, 
related  by  one  half  its  structure  to  some  swift  and 
shapely  fish,  and  by  the  other  to  some  strong-winged 
and  graceful  bird.  The  fish  shows  where  there  should 
be  the  greatest  breadth  of  beam  and  depth  in  the  hold  ; 
its  fins  direct  where  to  set  the  oars,  and  the  tail  gives 
some  hint  for  the  form  and  position  of  the  rudder. 
The  bird  shows  how  to  rig  and  trim  the  sails,  and 
what  form  to  give  to  the  prow  that  it  may  balance  the 
boat,  and  divide  the  air  and  water  best.  These  hints 
we  had  but  partially  obeyed.  But  the  eyes,  though 
they  are  no  sailors,  will  never  be  satisfied  with  any 
model,  however  fashionable,  which  does  not  answer 
all  the  requisitions  of  art.  However,  as  art  is  all  of  a 
ship  but  the  wood,  and  yet  the  wood  alone  will  rudely 
serve  the  purpose  of  a  ship,  so  our  boat  being  of  wood 
gladly  availed  itself  of  the  old  law  that  the  heavier 
shall  float  the  lighter,  and  though  a  dull  water  fowl, 
proved  a  sufficient  buoy  for  our  purpose. 

"  Were  it  the  will  of  Heaven,  an  osier  bough 
Were  vessel  safe  enough  the  seas  to  plow." 

Some  village  friends  stood  upon  a  promontory  lower 
down  the  stream  to  wave  us  a  last  farewell ;  but  we, 


S^  TURD  A  V.  1 1 

having  already  performed  these  shore  rites  with  ex- 
cusable reserve,  as  befits  those  v^ho  are  embarked 
on  unusual  enterprises,  who  behold  but  speak  not, 
silently  glided  past  the  firm  lands  of  Concord,  both 
peopled  cape  and  lonely  summer  meadow,  with  steady 
sweeps.  And  yet  we  did  unbend  so  far  as  to  let 
our  guns  speak  for  us,  when  at  length  we  had  swept 
out  of  sight,  and  thus  left  the  woods  to  ring  again 
with  their  echoes ;  and  it  may  be  many  russet-clad 
children  lurking  in  those  broad  meadows,  with  the 
bittern  and  the  woodcock  and  the  rail,  though  wholly 
concealed  by  brakes  and  hardback  and  meadow-sweet, 
heard  our  salute  that  afternoon. 

We  were  soon  floating  past  the  first  regular  battle 
ground  of  the  Revolution,  resting  on  our  oars  between 
the  still  visible  abutments  of  that  "  North  Bridge," 
over  which  in  April,  1775,  rolled  the  first  faint  tide 
of  that  war,  which  ceased  not,  till,  as  we  read  on  the 
stone  on  our  right,  it  "gave  peace  to  these  United 
States."     As  a  Concord  poet  has  sung,  — 

"  By  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood, 
Their  flag  to  April's  breeze  unfurled, 
Here  once  the  embattled  farmers  stood, 
And  fired  the  shot  heard  round  the  world. 

"  The  foe  long  since  in  silence  slept ; 
Alike  the  conqueror  silent  sleeps  ; 
And  Time  the  ruined  bridge  has  swept 

Down  the  dark  stream  which  seaward  creeps." 

Our  reflections  had  already  acquired  a  historical 
remoteness  from  the  scenes  we  had  left,  and  we  our- 
selves essayed  to  sing. 

Ah,  't  is  in  vain  the  peaceful  din 
That  wakes  the  ignoble  town, 


12         A   WEEK   ON   THE    CONCORD  RIVER. 

Not  thus  did  braver  spirits  win 
A  patriot's  renown. 

There  is  one  field  beside  this  stream, 

Wherein  no  foot  does  fall, 
But  yet  it  beareth  in  my  dream 

A  richer  crop  than  all. 

Let  me  believe  a  dream  so  dear, 

Some  heart  beat  high  that  day, 
Above  the  petty  Province  here, 

And  Britain  far  away ; 

Some  hero  of  the  ancient  mould. 

Some  arm  of  knightly  worth, 
Of  strength  unbought,  and  faith  unsold. 

Honored  this  spot  of  earth  ; 

Who  sought  the  prize  his  heart  described, 

And  did  not  ask  release. 
Whose  free  born  valor  was  not  bribed 

By  prospect  of  a  peace. 

The  men  who  stood  on  yonder  height 

That  day  are  long  since  gone ; 
Not  the  same  hand  directs  the  fight 

And  monumental  stone. 

Ye  were  the  Grecian  cities  then. 

The  Romes  of  modern  birth, 
Where  the  New  England  husbandmen 

Have  shown  a  Roman  worth. 

In  vain  I  search  a  foreign  land. 

To  find  our  Bunker  Hill, 
And  Lexington  and  Concord  stand 

By  no  Laconian  rill. 

With  such  thoughts  we  swept  gently  by  this  now 
peaceful  pasture  ground,  on  waves  of  Concord,  in 
which  was  long  since  drowned  the  din  of  war. 


SATURDAY,  1 3 

But  since  we  sailed 
Some  things  have  failed, 
And  many  a  dream 
Gone  down  the  stream. 

Here  then  an  aged  shepherd  dwelt, 
Who  to  his  flock  his  substance  dealt, 
And  ruled  them  with  a  vigorous  crook. 
By  precept  of  the  sacred  Book ; 
But  he  the  pierless  bridge  passed  o'er, 
And  solitary  left  the  shore. 

Anon  a  youthful  pastor  came, 
Whose  crook  was  not  unknown  to  fame, 
His  lambs  he  viewed  with  gentle  glance. 
Spread  o'er  the  country's  wide  expanse. 
And  fed  with  "  Mosses  from  the  Manse." 
Here  was  our  Hawthorne  in  the  dale. 
And  here  the  shepherd  told  his  tale. 

That  slight  shaft  had  now  sunk  behind  the  hills, 
and  we  had  floated  round  the  neighboring  bend,  and 
under  the  new  North  Bridge  between  Ponkawtasset 
and  the  Poplar  Hill,  into  the  Great  Meadows,  which, 
like  a  broad  moccasin  print,  have  levelled  a  fertile  and 
juicy  place  in  nature. 

On  Ponkawtasset,  since,  with  such  delay, 
Down  this  still  stream  we  took  our  meadowy  way, 
A  poet  wise  has  settled,  whose  fine  ray 
Doth  faintly  shine  on  Concord's  twilight  day. 

Like  those  first  stars,  whose  silver  beams  on  high. 
Shining  more  brightly  as  the  day  goes  by. 
Most  travellers  cannot  at  first  descry. 
But  eyes  that  wont  to  range  the  evening -sky, 

And  know  celestial  lights,  do  plainly  see. 
And  gladly  hail  them,  numbering  two  or  three; 
For  lore  that 's  deep  must  deeply  studied  be. 
As  from  deep  wells  men  read  star-poetry. 


14         A    WEEK  ON   THE    CONCORD  RIVER. 

These  stars  are  never  pal'd,  though  out  of  sight, 
But  hke  the  sun  they  shine  forever  bright ; 
Aye,  they  are  suns,  though  earth  must  in  its  flight 
Put  out  its  eyes  that  it  may  see  their  Hght. 

Who  would  neglect  the  least  celestial  sound, 
Or  faintest  light  that  falls  on  earthly  ground. 
If  he  could  know  it  one  day  would  be  found 
That  star  in  Cygnus  whither  we  are  bound, 
And  pale  our  sun  with  heavenly  radiance  round? 

Gradually  the  village  murmur  subsided,  and  we 
seemed  to  be  embarked  on  the  placid  current  of  our 
dreams,  floating  from  past  to  future  as  silently  as  one 
awakes  to  fresh  morning  or  evening  thoughts.  We 
glided  noiselessly  down  the  stream,  occasionally  driv- 
ing a  pickerel  from  the  covert  of  the  pads,  or  a  bream 
from  her  nest,  and  the  smaller  bittern  now  and  then 
sailed  away  on  sluggish  wings  from  some  recess  in 
the  shore,  or  the  larger  lifted  itself  out  of  the  long 
grass  at  our  approach,  and  carried  its  precious  legs 
away  to  deposit  them  in  a  place  of  safety.  The 
tortoises  also  rapidly  dropped  into  the  water,  as  our 
boat  ruffled  the  surface  amid  the  willows,  breaking 
the  reflections  of  the  trees.  The  banks  had  passed 
the  height  of  their  beauty,  and  some  of  the  brighter 
flowers  showed  by  their  faded  tints  that  the  season 
was  verging  towards  the  afternoon  of  the  year;  but 
this  sombre  tinge  enhanced  their  sincerity,  and  in 
the  still  unabated  heats  they  seemed  like  a  mossy 
brink  of  some  cool  well.  The  narrow-leaved  willow 
lay  along  the  surface  of  the  water  in  masses  of  light 
green  foliage,  interspersed  with  the  large  white  balls 
of  the  button-bush.  The  rose-colored  polygonum 
raised  its  head  proudly  above  the  water  on  either 
hand,  and.  flowering  at  this  season  and  in  these  locali- 


SATCKDAY.  1 5 

ties,  in  the  midst  of  dense  fields  of  the  white  species, 
which  skirted  the  sides  of  the  stream,  its  little  streak 
of  red  looked  very  rare  and  precious.  The  pure  white 
blossoms  of  the  arrow-head  stood  in  the  shallower 
parts,  and  a  few  cardinals  on  the  margin  still  proudly 
surveyed  themselves  reflected  in  the  water,  though 
the  latter,  as  well  as  the  pickerel-weed,  was  now  nearly 
out  of  blossom.  The  snake-head,  chelone glabra,  grew 
close  to  the  shore,  while  a  kind  of  coreopsis,  turning 
its  brazen  face  to  the  sun,  full  and  rank,  and  a  tall  dull 
red  flower,  eiipatoriiun  pitrpureiim,  or  trumpet  weed, 
formed  the  rear  rank  of  the  fiuvial  array.  The  bright 
blue  flowers  of  the  soap-wort  gentian  were  sprinkled 
here  and  there  in  the  adjacent  meadows,  like  flowers 
which  Proserpine  had  dropped,  and  still  further  in 
the  fields,  or  higher  on  the  bank,  were  seen  the  Vir- 
ginian rhexia,  and  drooping  neottia  or  ladies'-tresses  ; 
while  from  the  more  distant  waysides,  which  we  occa- 
sionally passed,  and  banks  where  the  sun  had  lodged, 
was  reflected  a  dull  yellow  beam  from  the  ranks  of 
tansy,  now  in  its  prime.  In  short,  nature  seemed  to 
have  adorned  herself  for  our  departure  with  a  pro- 
fusion of  fringes  and  curls,  mingled  with  the  bright 
tints  of  flowers,  reflected  in  the  water.  But  we  missed 
the  white  water-lily,  which  is  the  queen  of  river  flowers, 
its  reign  being  over  for  this  season.  He  makes  his 
voyage  too  late,  perhaps,  by  a  true  water  clock  who 
delays  so  long.  Many  of  this  species  inhabit  our 
Concord  water.  I  have  passed  down  the  river  before 
sunrise  on  a  summer  morning  between  fields  of  lilies 
still  shut  in  sleep ;  and  when  at  length  the  flakes  of 
sunlight  from  over  the  bank  fell  on  the  surface  of  the 
water,  whole  fields  of  white  blossoms  seemed  to  flash 
open  before  me,  as  I  floated  along,  like  the  unfolding 


1 6        A   WEEK   ON  THE    COKCORD   RIVER. 

of  a  banner,  so  sensible  is  this  flower  to  the  influence 
of  the  sun's  rays. 

As  we  were  floating  through  the  last  of  these  famil- 
iar meadows,  we  observed  the  large  and  conspicuous 
flowers  of  the  hibiscus,  covering  the  dwarf  willows, 
and  mingled  with  the  leaves  of  the  grape,  and  wished 
that  we  could  inform  one  of  our  friends  behind  of  the 
locality  of  this  somewhat  rare  and  inaccessible  flower 
before  it  was  too  late  to  pluck  it :  but  we  were  just 
gliding  out  of  sight  of  the  village  spire  before  it  oc- 
curred to  us  that  the  farmer  in  the  adjacent  meadow 
would  go  to  church  on  the  morrow,  and  would  carry 
this  news  for  us  :  and  so  by  the  Monday,  while  we 
should  be  floating  on  the  Merrimack,  our  friend  would 
be  reaching  to  pluck  this  blossom  on  the  bank  of  the 
Concord. 

After  a  pause  at  Ball's  Hill,  the  St.  Ann's  of  Con- 
cord voyageurs,  not  to  say  any  prayer  for  the  success 
of  our  voyage,  but  to  gather  the  few  berries  which 
were  still  left  on  the  hills,  hanging  by  very  slender 
threads,  we  weighed  anchor  again,  and  were  soon  out 
of  sight  of  our  native  village.  The  land  seemed  to 
grow  fairer  as  we  withdrew  from  it.  Far  away  to  the 
south-west  lay  the  quiet  village,  left  alone  under  its 
elms  and  button-woods  in  mid  afternoon ;  and  the 
hills,  notwithstanding  their  blue,  ethereal  faces,  seemed 
to  cast  a  saddened  eye  on  their  old  playfellows ;  but, 
turning  short  to  the  north,  we  bade  adieu  to  their 
familiar  outlines,  and  addressed  ourselves  to  new 
scenes  and  adventures.  Nought  was  familiar  but  the 
heavens,  from  under  whose  roof  the  voyageur  never 
passes  ;  but  with  their  countenance,  and  the  acquaint- 
ance we  had  with  river  and  wood,  we  trusted  to  fare 
well  under  anv  circumstances. 


SATURDAY.  1 7 

From  this  point,  the  river  runs  perfectly  straight 
for  a  mile  or  more  to  Carlisle  Bridge,  which  consists 
of  twenty  wooden  piers,  and  when  we  looked  back 
over  it,  its  surface  was  reduced  to  a  line's  breadth, 
and  appeared  like  a  cobweb  gleaming  in  the  sun. 
Here  and  there  might  be  seen  a  pole  sticking  up,  to 
mark  the  place  where  some  fisherman  had  enjoyed 
unusual  luck,  and  in  return  had  consecrated  his  rod 
to  the  deities  who  preside  over  these  shallows.  It 
was  fall  twice  as  broad  as  before,  deep  and  tranquil, 
with  a  muddy  bottom,  and  bordered  with  willows, 
beyond  which  spread  broad  lagoons  covered  with 
pads,  bulrushes,  and  flags. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  we  passed  a  man  on  the  shore 
fishing  with  a  long  birch  pole,  its  silvery  bark  left  on, 
and  a  dog  at  his  side,  rowing  so  near  as  to  agitate  his 
cork  with  our  oars,  and  drive  away  luck  for  a  sea- 
son ;  and  when  we  had  rowed  a  mile  as  straight  as 
an  arrow,  with  our  faces  turned  towards  him,  and  the 
bubbles  in  our  wake  still  visible  on  the  tranquil  sur- 
face, there  stood  the  fisher  still  with  his  dog,  like 
statues  under  the  other  side  of  the  heavens,  the  only 
objects  to  relieve  the  eye  in  the  extended  meadow ; 
and  there  would  he  stand  abiding  his  luck,  till  he 
took  his  way  home  through  the  fields  at  evening  with 
his  fish.  Thus,  by  one  bait  or  another.  Nature  allures 
inhabitants  into  all  her  recesses.  This  man  wa^  the 
last  of  our  townsmen  whom  we  saw,  and  we  silently 
through  him  bade  adieu  to  our  friends. 

The  characteristics  and  pursuits  of  various  ages  and 
races  of  men  are  ahvays  existing  in  epitome  in  every 
neighborhood.  The  pleasures  of  my  earliest  youth 
have    become   tlie   inheritance  of  other  men.     This 


1 8       A    WEEK   OX   THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

man  is  still  a  fisher,  and  belongs  to  an  era  in  which  I 
myself  have  lived.  Perchance  he  is  not  confounded 
by  many  knowledges,  and  has  not  sought  out  many 
inventions,  but  how  to  take  many  fishes  before  the 
sun  sets,  with  his  slender  birchen  pole  and  flaxen  line, 
that  is  invention  enough  for  him.  It  is  good  even  to 
be  a  fisherman  in  summer  and  in  winter.  Some  men 
are  judges  these  August  days,  sitting  on  benches,  even 
till  the  court  rises ;  they  sit  judging  there  honorably, 
between  the  seasons  and  between  meals,  leading  a 
civil  politic  Hfe,  arbitrating  in  the  case  of  Spaulding 
versus  Cummings,  it  may  be,  from  highest  noon  till 
the  red  vesper  sinks  into  the  west.  The  fisherman, 
meanwhile,  stands  in  three  feet  of  water,  under  the 
same  summer's  sun,  arbitrating  in  other  cases  between 
muckworm  and  shiner,  amid  the  fragrance  of  water- 
lilies,  mint,  and  pontederia,  leading  his  life  many  rods 
from  the  dry  land,  wuthin  a  pole's  length  of  where  the 
larger  fishes  swim.  Human  life  is  to  him  very  much 
like  a  river, 

—  "renning  aie  downward  to  the  sea." 

This  was  his  observation.  His  honor  made  a  great 
discovery  in  bailments. 

I  can  just  remember  an  old  brown-coated  man  who 
was  the  Walton  of  this  stream,  who  had  come  over 
from.  Newcastle,  England,  with  his  son,  the  latter  a 
stout  and  hearty  man  who  had  lifted  an  anchor  in  his 
day.  A  straight  old  man  he  was  who  took  his  way 
in  silence  through  the  meadows,  having  passed  the 
period  of  communication  with  his  fellows ;  his  old 
experienced  coat  hanging  long  and  straight  and  brown 
as  the  yellow  pine  bark,  glittering  with  so  much  smoth- 
ered sunlight,  if  you  stood  near  enough,  no  work  of 


SATURDAY.  1 9 

art  but  naturalized  at  length,  I  often  discovered  him 
unexpectedly  amid  the  pads  and  the  gray  willows 
when  he  moved,  fishing  in  some  old  country  method, 
—  for  youth  and  age  then  went  a-fishing  together,  — 
full  of  incommunicable  thoughts,  perchance  about  his 
own  Tyne  and  Northumberland.  He  was  always  to 
be  seen  in  serene  afternoons  haunting  the  river,  and 
almost  rustling  with  the  sedge  ;  so  many  sunny  hours 
in  an  old  mans  life,  entrapping  silly  fish,  almost  grown 
to  be  the  sun's  familiar ;  what  need  had  he  of  hat  or 
raiment  any,  having  served  out  his  time,  and  seen 
through  such  thin  disguises?  I  have  seen  how  his 
coeval  fates  rewarded  him  with  the  yellow  perch,  and 
yet  I  thought  his  luck  was  not  in  proportion  to  his 
years ;  and  I  have  seen  when,  with  slow  steps  and 
weighed  down  with  aged  thoughts,  he  disappeared 
with  his  fish  under  his  low-roofed  house  on  the  skirts 
of  the  village.  I  think  nobody  else  saw  him;  nobody 
else  remembers  him  now,  for  he  soon  after  died,  and 
migrated  to  new  Tyne  streams.  His  fishing  was  not 
a  sport,  nor  solely  a  means  of  subsistence,  but  a  sort 
of  solemn  sacrament  and  withdrawal  from  the  world, 
just  as  the  aged  read  their  bibles. 

Whether  we  live  by  the  sea-side,  or  by  the  lakes 
and  rivers,  or  on  the  prairie,  it  concerns  us  to  attend 
to  the  nature  of  fishes,  since  they  are  not  phenomena 
confined  to  certain  localities  only,  but  forms  and 
phases  of  the  life  in  nature  universally  dispersed.  The 
countless  shoals  which  annually  coast  the  shores  of 
Europe  and  America,  are  not  so  interesting  to  the 
student  of  nature,  as  the  more  fertile  law  itself,  which 
deposits  their  spawn  on  the  tops  of  mountains,  and 
on  the  interior  plains  ;  the  fish  principle  in  nature, 
from  which  it  results  that  they  may  be  found  in  water 


20       A    WEEK   OX   THE    CONCORD  RIVER. 

in  so  many  places,  in  greater  or  less  numbers.  The 
natural  historian  is  not  a  fisherman,  who  prays  for 
cloudy  days  and  good  luck  merely,  but  as  fishing 
has  been  styled,  "  a  contemplative  man's  recreation/' 
introducing  him  profitably  to  woods  and  water,  so  the 
fruit  of  the  naturalist's  observations  is  not  in  new  gen- 
era or  species,  but  in  new  contemplations  still,  and 
science  is  only  a  more  contemplative  man's  recreation. 
The  seeds  of  the  life  of  fishes  are  everywhere  dissem- 
inated, whether  the  winds  waft  them,  or  the  waters 
float  them,  or  the  deep  earth  holds  them  ;  wherever  a 
pond  is  dug.  straightway  it  is  stocked  with  this  viva- 
cious race.  They  have  a  lease  of  nature,  and  it  is  not 
yet  out.  The  Chinese  are  bribed  to  carry  their  ova 
from  province  to  province  in  jars  or  in  hollow  reeds, 
or  the  water-birds  to  transport  them  to  the  mountain 
tarns  and  interior  lakes.  There  are  fishes  wherever 
there  is  a  fluid  medium,  and  even  in  clouds  and  in 
melted  metals  we  detect  their  semblance.  Think 
how  in  winter  you  can  sink  a  line  down  straight  in  a 
pasture  through  snow  and  through  ice,  and  pull  up  a 
bright,  slippery,  dumb,  subterranean  silver  or  golden 
fish!  It  is  curious,  also,  to  reflect  how  they  make  one 
family,  from  the  largest  to  the  smallest.  The  least 
minnow,  that  lies  on  the  ice  as  bait  for  pickerel,  looks 
like  a  huge  sea-fish  cast  up  on  the  shore.  In  the 
waters  of  this  town  there  are  about  a  dozen  distinct 
species,  though  the  inexperienced  would  expect  many 
more. 

It  enhances  our  sense  of  the  grand  security  and 
serenity  of  nature,  to  observe  the  still  undisturbed 
economy  and  content  of  the  fishes  of  this  century, 
their  happiness  a  regular  fruit  of  the  summer.     The 


SA  TURD  A  V.  2 1 

fresh-water  Sun  Fish,  Bream,  or  RufF,  Pomotis  vul- 
garis, as  it  were,  without  ancestry,  without  posterity, 
still  represents  the  Fresh  Water  Sun  Fish  in  nature. 
It  is  the  most  common  of  all,  and  seen  on  every  ur- 
chin's string  ;  a  simple  and  inoffensive  fish,  whose  nests 
are  visible  all  along  the  shore,  hollowed  in  the  sand, 
over  which  it  is  steadily  poised  through  the  summer 
hours  on  waving  fin.  Sometimes  there  are  twenty  or 
thirty  nests  in  the  space  of  a  few  rods,  two  feet  wide  by 
half  a  foot  in  depth,  and  made  with  no  little  labor,  the 
weeds  being  removed,  and  the  sand  shoved  up  on  the 
sides,  like  a  bowl.  Here  it  may  be  seen  early  in  sum- 
mer assiduously  brooding,  and  driving  away  minnows 
and  larger  fishes,  even  its  own  species,  which  would 
disturb  its  ova,  pursuing  them  a  few  feet,  and  circling 
round  swiftly  to  its  nest  again :  the  minnows,  like 
young  sharks,  instantly  entering  the  empty  nests, 
meanwhile,  and  swallowing  the  spawn,  which  is  at- 
tached to  the  weeds  and  to  the  bottom,  on  the  sunny 
side.  The  spawn  is  exposed  to  so  many  dangers, 
that  a  very  small  proportion  can  ever  become  fishes, 
for  beside  being  the  constant  prey  of  birds  and  fishes, 
a  great  many  nests  are  made  so  near  the  shore,  in 
shallow  water,  that  they  are  left  dry  in  a  few  days,  as 
the  river  goes  down.  These  and  the  lamprey's  are 
the  only  fishes'  nests  that  I  have  observed,  though  the 
ova  of  some  species  may  be  seen  floating  on  the  sur- 
face. The  breams  are  so  careful  of  their  charge  that 
you  may  stand  close  by  in  the  water  and  examine  them 
at  your  leisure.  I  have  thus  stood  over  them  half  an 
hour  at  a  time,  and  stroked  them  familiarly  without 
frightening  them,  suiTering  them  to  nibble  my  fingers 
harmlessly,  and  seen  them  erect  their  dorsal  fins  in 
anger  when  my  hand  approached  their  ova,  and  have 


22       .'/    WEEK   ON   THE    COXCORD   RIVER. 

even  taken  them  gently  out  of  the  water  with  my 
hand;  though  this  cannot  be  accomplished  by  a  sud- 
den movement,  however  dexterous,  for  instant  warn- 
ing is  conveyed  to  them  through  their  denser  element, 
but  only  by  letting  the  fingers  gradually  close  about 
them  as  they  are  poised  over  the  palm,  and  with  the 
utmost  gentleness  raising  them  slowly  to  the  surface. 
Though  stationary,  they  keep  up  a  constant  sculling 
or  waving  motion  with  their  fins,  which  is  exceedingly 
graceful,  and  expressive  of  their  humble  happiness  ; 
for  unlike  ours,  the  element  in  which  they  live  is  a 
stream  which  must  be  constantly  resisted.  From 
time  to  time  they  nibble  the  weeds  at  the  bottom  or 
overhanging  their  nests,  or  dart  after  a  fly  or  a  worm. 
The  dorsal  fin,  besides  answering  the  purpose  of  a 
keel,  with  the  anal,  serves  to  keep  the  fish  upright,  for 
in  shallow  water,  where  this  is  not  covered,  they  fall 
on  their  sides.  As  you  stand  thus  stooping  over  the 
bream  in  its  nest,  the  edges  of  the  dorsal  and  caudal 
fins  have  a  singular  dusty  golden  reflection,  and  its 
eyes,  which  stand  out  from  the  head,  are  transparent 
and  colorless.  Seen  in  its  native  element,  it  is  a  very 
beautiful  and  compact  fish,  perfect  in  all  its  parts,  and 
looks  like  a  brilliant  coin  fresh  from  the  mint.  It  is  a 
perfect  jewel  of  the  river,  the  green,  red,  coppery,  and 
golden  reflections  of  its  mottled  sides  being  the  con- 
centration of  such  rays  as  struggle  through  the  float- 
ing pads  and  flowers  to  the  sandy  bottom,  and  in 
harmony  with  the  sunlit  brown  and  yellow  pebbles. 
Behind  its  wateiT  shield  it  dwells  far  from  many  acci- 
dents inevitable  to  human  life. 

There  is  also  another  species  of  bream  found  in  our 
river,  without  the  red  spot  on  the  operculum,  which, 
according  to  M.  Agassiz,  is  undescribed. 


SA  TURD  A  Y.  23 

The  Common  Perch,  Perca  flavescens,  which  name 
describes  well  the  gleaming,  golden  reflections  of  its 
scales  as  it  is  drawn  out  of  the  water,  its  red  gills 
standing  out  in  vain  in  the  thin  element,  is  one  of  the 
handsomest  and  most  regularly  formed  of  our  fishes, 
and  at  such  a  moment  as  this  reminds  us  of  the  fish 
in  the  picture,  which  wished  to  be  restored  to  its 
native  element  until  it  had  grown  larger ;  and  indeed 
most  of  this  species  that  are  caught  are  not  half  grown. 
In  the  ponds  there  is  a  light-colored  and  slender  kind, 
which  swim  in  shoals  of  many  hundreds  in  the  sunny 
water,  in  company  with  the  shiner,  averaging  not 
more  than  six  or  seven  inches  in  length,  while  only  a 
few  larger  specimens  are  found  in  the  deepest  water, 
which  prey  upon  their  weaker  brethren.  I  have  often 
attracted  these  small  perch  to  the  shore  at  evening, 
by  rippling  the  water  with  my  fingers,  and  they  may 
sometimes  be  caught  while  attempting  to  pass  inside 
your  hands.  It  is  a  tough  and  heedless  fish,  biting 
from  impulse,  without  nibbling,  and  from  impulse 
refraining  to  bite,  and  sculling  indifferently  past.  It 
rather  prefers  the  clear  water  and  sandy  bottoms, 
though  here  it  has  not  much  choice.  It  is  a  true  fish, 
such  as  the  angler  loves  to  put  into  his  basket  or  hang 
at  the  top  of  his  willow  twig,  in  shady  afternoons 
along  the  banks  of  the  stream.  So  many  unques- 
tionable fishes  he  counts,  and  so  many  shiners,  which 
he  counts  and  then  throws  away. 

The  Chivin,  Dace,  Roach,  Cousin  Trout,  or  what- 
ever else  it  is  called,  Leitcisciis  pidchelhis^  white  and 
red,  always  an  unexpected  prize,  which,  however,  any 
angler  is  glad  to  hook  for  its  rarity.  A  name  that 
reminds  us  of  many  an  unsuccessful  ramble  by  swift 
streams,  when  the  wind  rose  to  disappoint  the  fisher. 


24       -i    \VEEK   ON   THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

It  is  commonly  a  silvery  soft-scaled  fish,  of  graceful, 
scholarlike,  and  classical  look,  like  many  a  picture  in 
an  English  book.  It  loves  a  swift  current  and  a  sandy 
bottom,  and  bites  inadvertently,  yet  not  without  appe- 
tite for  the  bait.  The  minnows  are  used  as  bait  for 
pickerel  in  the  winter.  The  red  chivin,  according  to 
some,  is  still  the  same  fish,  only  older,  or  with  its  tints 
deepened  as  they  think  by  the  darker  water  it  inhab- 
its, as  the  red  clouds  swim  in  the  twilight  atmosphere. 
He  who  has  not  hooked  the  red  chivin  is  not  yet  a 
complete  angler.  Other  fishes,  methinks,  are  slightly 
amphibious,  but  this  is  a  denizen  of  the  water  wholly. 
The  cork  goes  dancing  down  the  swift  rushing  stream, 
amid  the  weeds  and  sands,  when  suddenly,  by  a  coin- 
cidence never  to  be  remembered,  emerges  this  fabulous 
inhabitant  of  another  element,  a.  thing  heard  of  but 
not  seen,  as  if  it  were  the  instant  creation  of  an 
eddy,  a  true  product  of  the  running  stream.  And  this 
bright  cupreous  dolphin  was  spawned  and  has  passed 
its  life  beneath  the  level  of  your  feet  in  your  native 
fields.  Fishes,  too,  as  well  as  birds  and  clouds,  derive 
their  armor  from  the  mine.  I  have  heard  of  mack- 
erel visiting  the  copper  banks  at  a  particular  season  ; 
this  fish,  perchance,  has  its  habitat  in  the  Coppermine 
river.  I  have  caught  white  chivin  of  great  size  in  the 
Aboljacknagesic,  where  it  empties  into  the  Penobscot, 
at  the  base  of  Mount  Ktaadn,  but  no  red  ones  there. 
The  latter  variety  seems  not  to  have  been  sufficiently 
observed. 

The  Dace,  Lcuciscus  argenteus.  is  a  slight  silvery 
minnow,  found  generally  in  the  middle  of  the  stream, 
where  the  current  is  most  rapid,  and  frequently  con- 
founded with  the  last  named. 

The  Shiner,  Leuciscus  crysoleucas,  is  a  soft-scaled 


SATURDAY.  25 

and  tender  fish,  the  victim  of  its  stronger  neighbors, 
found  in  all  places,  deep  and  shallow,  clear  and  tur- 
bid ;  generally  the  first  nibbler  at  the  bait,  but,  with 
its  small  mouth  and  nibbling  propensities,  not  easily 
caught.  It  is  a  gold  or  silver  bit  that  passes  current 
in  the  river,  its  limber  tail  dimpling  the  surface  in 
sport  or  flight.  I  have  seen  the  fry  when  frightened 
by  something  thrown  into  the  water,  leap  out  by  doz- 
ens, together  with  the  dace,  and  wreck  themselves 
upon  a  floating  plank.  It  is  the  little  light-infant 
of  the  river,  with  body  armor  of  gold  or  silver  span- 
gles, slipping,  gliding  its  life  through  with  a  quirk  of 
the  tail,  half  in  the  water,  half  in  the  air,  upward  and 
ever  upward  with  flitting  fin  to  more  crystalline  tides, 
yet  still  abreast  of  us  dwellers  on  the  bank.  It  is 
almost  dissolved  by  the  summer  heats.  A  slighter  and 
lighter  colored  shiner  is  found  in  one  of  our  ponds. 

The  Pickerel,  Esox  reticulatus,  the  swiftest,  wariest, 
and  most  ravenous  of  fishes,  is  very  common  in  the 
shallow  and  weedy  lagoons  along  the  sides  of  the 
stream.  It  is  a  solemn,  stately,  ruminant  fish,  lurking 
under  the  shadow  of  a  pad  at  noon,  with  still,  circum- 
spect, voracious  eye,  motionless  as  a  jewel  set  in 
water,  or  moving  slowly  along  to  take  up  its  position, 
darting  from  time  to  time  at  such  unlucky  fish  or  frog 
or  insect  as  comes  within  its  range,  and  swallowing 
it  at  a  gulp.  I  have  caught  one  which  had  swallowed 
a  brother  pickerel  half  as  large  as  itself,  with  the  tail 
still  visible  in  its  mouth,  while  the  head  was  already 
digested  in  its  stomach.  Sometimes  a  striped  snake, 
bound  to  greener  meadows  across  the  stream,  ends  its 
undulatory  progress  in  the  same  receptacle.  They 
are  so  greedy  and  impetuous  that  they  are  frequently 
caught  by  being  entangled  in  the  line  the  moment  it 


26        A    WEEK   OX   THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

is  cast.  Fishermen  also  distinguish  the  brook  pick- 
erel, a  shorter  and  thicker  fish  than  the  former. 

The  Horned  Pout,  Pimelodiis  nebulosus.  sometimes 
called  Minister,  from  the  peculiar  squeaking  noise  it 
makes  when  drawn  out  of  the  water,  is  a  dull  and 
blundering  fellow,  and  like  the  eel  vespertinal  in  his 
habits,  and  fond  of  the  mud.  It  bites  deliberately  as 
if  about  its  business.  They  are  taken  at  night  with  a 
mass  of  worms  strung  on  a  thread,  which  catches  in 
their  teeth,  sometimes  three  or  four,  with  an  eel,  at 
one  pull.  They  are  extremely  tenacious  of  life,  open- 
ing and  shutting  their  mouths  for  half  an  hour  after 
their  heads  have  been  cut  off.  A  bloodthirsty  and 
bullying  race  of  rangers,  inhabiting  the  fertile  river 
bottoms,  with  ever  a  lance  in  rest,  and  ready  to  do 
battle  with  their  nearest  neighbor.  I  have  observed 
them  in  summer,  when  ever\-  other  one  had  a  long 
and  bloody  scar  upon  his  back,  where  the  skin  was 
gone,  the  mark,  perhaps,  of  some  fierce  encounter. 
Sometimes  the  fry.  not  an  inch  long,  are  seen  darken- 
ing the  shore  with  their  myriads. 

The  Suckers,  Catostonii  Bostonieiises  and  tuber ai- 
lati,  Common  and  Horned,  perhaps  on  an  average 
the  largest  of  our  fishes,  may  be  seen  in  shoals  of  a 
hundred  or  more,  stemming  the  current  in  the  sun,  on 
their  mysterious  migrations,  and  sometimes  sucking 
in  the  bait  which  the  fisherman  suffers  to  float  toward 
them.  The  former,  which  sometimes  grow  to  a  large 
size,  are  frequently  caught  by  the  hand  in  the  brooks, 
or.  like  the  red  chivin,  are  jerked  out  by  a  hook  fas- 
tened firmly  to  the  end  of  a  stick,  and  placed  under 
their  jaws.  They  are  hardly  known  to  the  mere 
angler,  however,  not  often  biting  at  his  baits,  though 
the  spearer  carries  home  many  a  mess  in  the  spring. 


SATURDAY.  2/ 

To  our  village  eyes,  these  shoals  have  a  foreign  and 
imposing  aspect,  realizing  the  fertility  of  the  seas. 

The  Common  Eel,  too,  Miirceiia  Bostonieiisis,  the 
only  species  known  in  the  State,  a  slimy,  squirming 
creature,  informed  of  mud,  still  squirming  in  the  pan, 
is  speared  and  hooked  up  with  various  success. 
Methinks  it  too  occurs  in  picture,  left  after  the  deluge, 
in  many  a  meadow  high  and  dry. 

In  the  shallow  parts  of  the  river,  where  the  current 
is  rapid,  and  the  bottom  pebbly,  you  may  sometimes 
see  the  curious  circular  nests  of  the  Lamprey  Eel, 
Peiromyzon  Auiericaims,  the  American  Stone-Sucker, 
as  large  as  a  cart  wheel,  a  foot  or  two  in  height,  and 
sometimes  rising  half  a  foot  above  the  surface  of  the 
water.  They  collect  these  stones,  of  the  size  of  a 
hen^s  egg,  with  their  mouths,  as  their  name  implies, 
and  are  said  to  fashion  them  into  circles  with  their 
tails.  They  ascend  falls  by  clinging  to  the  stones, 
which  may  sometimes  be  raised,  by  lifting  the  fish 
by  the  tail.  As  they  are  not  seen  on  their  way  down 
the  streams,  it  is  thought  by  fishermen  that  they  never 
return,  but  waste  away  and  die,  clinging  to  rocks  and 
stumps  of  trees  for  an  indefinite  period ;  a  tragic 
feature  in  the  scenery  of  the  river  bottoms,  worthy 
to  be  remembered  with  Shakspeare's  description  of 
the  sea-floor.  They  are  rarely  seen  in  our  waters  at 
present,  on  account  of  the  dams,  though  they  are 
taken  in  great  quantities  at  the  mouth  of  the  river 
in  Lowell.  Their  nests,  which  are  very  conspicuous, 
look  more  like  art  than  anything  in  the  river. 

If  we  had  leisure  this  afternoon,  we  might  turn  our 
prow  up  the  brooks  in  quest  of  the  classical  trout 
and  the  minnows.  Of  the  last  alone,  according  to 
M.  Agassiz,  several  of  the  species  found  in  this  town. 


28         J    WEEK   O.V   THE    COXCOKD   RIVER. 

are  yet  undescribed.  These  would,  perhaps,  com- 
plete the  list  of  our  finny  contemporaries  in  the 
Concord  waters. 

Salmon,  Shad,  and  Alewives.  were  formerly  abundant 
here,  and  taken  in  weirs  by  the  Indians,  who  taught 
this  method  to  the  whites,  by  whom  they  were  used 
as  food  and  as  manure,  until  the  dam,  and  afterward 
the  canal  at  Billerica,  and  the  factories  at  Lowell,  put 
an  end  to  their  migrations  hitherward ;  though  it  is 
thought  that  a  few  more  enterprising  shad  may  still 
occasionally  be  seen  in  this  part  of  the  river.  It  is 
said,  to  account  for  the  destruction  of  the  fishery,  that 
those  who  at  that  time  represented  the  interests  of 
the  fishermen  and  the  fishes,  remembering  between 
what  dates  they  were  accustomed  to  take  the  grown 
shad,  stipulated,  that  the  dams  should  be  left  open 
for  that  season  only,  and  the  fry,  which  go  down  a 
month  later,  were  consequently  stopped  and  destroyed 
by  myriads.  Others  say  that  the  fish-ways  were  not 
properly  constructed.  Perchance,  after  a  few  thou- 
sands of  years,  if  the  fishes  will  be  patient,  and  pass 
their  summers  elsewhere,  meanwhile,  nature  will  have 
levelled  the  Billerica  dam,  and  the  Lowell  factories, 
and  the  Grass-ground  River  run  clear  again,  to  be 
explored  by  new  migratory  shoals,  even  as  far  as  the 
Hopkinton  pond  and  Westborough  swamp. 

"One  would  like  to  know  more  of  that  race,  now 
extinct,  whose  seines  lie  rotting  in  the  garrets  of  their 
children,  who  openly  professed  the  trade  of  fishermen, 
and  even  fed  their  townsmen  creditably,  not  skulking 
through  the  meadows  to  a  rainy  afternoon  sport.  Dim 
visions  we  still  get  of  miraculous  draughts  of  fishes, 
and  heaps  uncountable  by  the  river-side,  from,  the 
tales   of    our   seniors   sent   on    horse-back    in    their 


SATURDAY.  29 

childhood  from  the  neighboring  towns,  perched  on 
saddle-bags,  with  instructions  to  get  the  one  bag 
filled  with  shad,  the  other  with  alewives.  At  least 
one  memento  of  those  days  may  still  exist  in  the 
memory  of  this  generation,  in  the  familiar  appellation 
of  a  celebrated  train-band  of  this  town,  whose  untrained 
ancestors  stood  creditably  at  Concord  North  Bridge. 
Their  captain,  a  man  of  piscatory  tastes,  having  duly 
warned  his  company  to  turn  out  on  a  certain  day. 
they,  like  obedient  soldiers,  appeared  promptly  on 
parade  at  the  appointed  time,  but,  unfortunately,  they 
went  undrilled,  except  in  the  manoeuvres  of  a  soldier's 
wit  and  unlicensed  jesting,  that  May  day ;  for  their 
captain,  forgetting  his  own  appointment,  and  warned 
only  by  the  favorable  aspect  of  the  heavens,  as  he  had 
often  done  before,  went  a  fishing  that  afternoon,  and 
his  company  thenceforth  was  known  to  old  and  young, 
grave  and  gay,  as  "  The  Shad,"  and  by  the  youths  of 
this  vicinity,  this  was  long  regarded  as  the  proper 
name  of  all  the  irregular  militia  in  Christendom. 
But,  alas,  no  record  of  these  fishers"'  lives  remains, 
that  we  know  of,  unless  it  be  one  brief  page  of  hard 
but  unquestionable  history,  which  occurs  in  Day  Book 
No.  4,  of  an  old  trader  of  this  town,  long  since  dead, 
which  shows  pretty  plainly  what  constituted  a  fisher- 
man's stock  in  trade  in  those  days.  It  purports  to  be 
a  Fisherman''s  Account  Current,  probably  for  the  fish- 
ing season  of  the  year  1805,  during  which  months  he 
purchased  daily  nmi  and  sugar,  sugar  and  rum,  N.  E. 
and  W.  I.,  "  one  cod  line,''  "  one  brown  mug,"  and  ••  a 
line  for  the  seine;"  rum  and  sugar,  sugar  and  rum, 
"good  loaf  sugar,"  and  "good  brown,"  W.  I.  and 
N.  E.,  in  short  and  uniform  entries  to  the  bottom  of 
the  page,  all  carried  out  in  pounds,  shillings,  and  pence, 


30         A    WEEK   ON   THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

from  March  25th  to  June  5th,  and  promptly  settled  by 
receiving  "  cash  in  full "  at  the  last  date.  But  perhaps 
not  so  settled  altogether.  These  were  the  necessaries 
of  life  in  those  days  ;  with  salmon,  shad,  and  alewives, 
fresh  and  pickled,  he  was  thereafter  independent  on 
the  groceries.  Rather  a  preponderance  of  the  fluid 
elements ;  but  such  was  this  fisherman's  nature.  I 
can  faintly  remember  to  have  seen  the  same  fisher 
in  my  earliest  youth,  still  as  near  the  river  as  he 
could  get,  with  uncertain  undulatory  step,  after  so 
many  things  had  gone  down  stream,  swinging  a 
scythe  in  the  meadow,  his  bottle  like  a  serpent  hid 
in  the  grass ;  himself  as  yet  not  cut  down  by  the 
Great  Mower. 

Surely  the  fates  are  forever  kind,  though  Nature's 
laws  are  more  immutable  than  any  despot's,  yet  to 
man's  daily  life  they  rarely  seem  rigid,  but  permit 
him  to  relax  with  license  in  summer  weather.  He 
is  not  harshly  reminded  of  the  things  he  may  not 
do.  She  is  very  kind  and  liberal  to  all  men  of  vicious 
habits,  and  certainly  does  not  deny  them  quarter; 
they  do  not  die  without  priest.  Still  they  maintain 
life  along  the  way,  keeping  this  side  the  Styx,  still 
hearty,  still  resolute,  '•  never  better  in  their  lives :  " 
and  again,  after  a  dozen  years  have  elapsed,  they 
start  up  from  behind  a  hedge,  asking  for  work  and 
wages  for  able-bodied  men.     Who  has  not  met  such 

"  a  beggar  on  the  way, 

Who  sturdily  could  gang?  "  *  *  * 
"  Who  cared  neither  for  wind  nor  wet, 
In  lands  where'er  he  past  ?  " 

"  That  bold  adopts  each  house  he  views,  his  own ; 
Makes  every  pulse  his  checquer,  and,  at  pleasure, 
Walks  forth,  and  ta.xes  all  the  world,  like  Cccsar;  "-=- 


SATURDAY.  3 1 

As  if  consistency  were  the  secret  of  health,  while  the 
poor  inconsistent  aspirant  man,  seeking  to  live  a  pure 
life,  feeding  on  air,  divided  against  himself,  cannot 
stand,  but  pines  and  dies  after  a  life  of  sickness,  on 
beds  of  down. 

The  unwise  are  accustomed  to  speak  as  if  some 
were  not  sick ;  but  methinks  the  difference  between 
men  in  respect  to  health  is  not  great  enough  to  lay 
much  stress  upon.  Some  are  reputed  sick  and  some 
are  not.  It  often  happens  that  the  sicker  man  is  the 
nurse  to  the  sounder. 

Shad  are  still  taken  in  the  basin  of  Concord  River 
at  Lowell,  where  they  are  said  to  be  a  month  earlier 
than  the  Merrimack  shad,  on  account  of  the  warmth 
of  the  water.  Still  patiently,  almost  pathetically,  with 
instinct  not  to  be  discouraged,  not  to  be  reasoned 
with,  revisiting  their  old  haunts,  as  if  their  stern  fates 
would  relent,  and  still  met  by  the  Corporation  with 
its  dam.  Poor  shad!  where  is  thy  redress?  When 
Nature  gave  thee  instinct,  gave  she  thee  the  heart  to 
bear  thy  fate?  Still  wandering  the  sea  in  thy  scaly 
armor  to  inquire  humbly  at  the  mouths  of  rivers  if 
man  has  perchance  left  them  free  for  thee  to  enter. 
By  countless  shoals  loitering  uncertain  meanwhile, 
merely  stemming  the  tide  there,  in  danger  from  sea 
foes  in  spite  of  thy  bright  armor,  awaiting  new  instruc- 
tions, until  the  sands,  until  the  water  itself,  tell  thee 
if  it  be  so  or  not.  Thus  by  whole  migrating  nations, 
full  of  instinct,  which  is  thy  faith,  in  this  backward 
spring,  turned  adrift,  and  perchance  knowest  not 
where  men  do  not  dwell,  where  there  are  not  factories, 
in  these  days.  Armed  with  no  sword,  no  electric 
shock,  but  mere  Shad,  armed  only  with  innocence  and 
a  just  cause,  with  tender  dumb  mouth  only  forward. 


32        .-/    WEEK   OX    THE    COXCOKD   RIVER. 

and  scales  easy  to  be  detached.  I  for  one  am  with 
thee,  and  who  knows  what  may  avail  a  crow-bar 
against  that  Billerica  dam  ?  —  Not  despairing  when 
whole  myriads  have  gone  to  feed  those  sea  monsters 
during  thy  suspense,  but  still  brave,  indifferent,  on 
easy  fin  there,  like  shad  reserved  for  higher  destinies. 
Willing  to  be  decimated  for  man's  behoof  after  the 
spawning  season.  Away  with  the  superficial  and 
selfish  phil-^?;/////-^//  of  men,  —  who  knows  what  ad- 
mirable virtue  of  fishes  may  be  below  low-water  mark, 
bearing  up  against  a  hard  destiny,  not  admired  by  that 
fellow  creature  who  alone  can  appreciate  it !  Who 
hears  the  fishes  when  they  cry?  It  will  not  be  for- 
gotten by  some  memory  that  we  were  contemporaries. 
Thou  shalt  ere  long  have  thy  way  up  the  rivers,  up 
all  the  rivers  of  the  globe,  if  I  am  not  mistaken. 
Yea,  even  thy  dull  watery  dream  shall  be  more  than 
realized.  If  it  were  not  so,  but  thou  wert  to  be  over- 
looked at  first  and  at  last,  then  would  not  I  take  their 
heaven.  Yes,  I  say  so,  who  think  I  know  better  than 
thou  canst.  Keep  a  stiff  fin  then,  and  stem  all  the 
tides  thou  mayest  meet. 

At  length  it  would  seem  that  the  interests,  not  of 
the  fishes  only,  but  of  the  men  of  W'ayland,  of  Sud- 
bury, of  Concord,  demand  the  levelling  of  that  dam. 
Innumerable  acres  of  meadow  are  waiting  to  be  made 
dry  land,  wild  native  grass  to  give  place  to  English. 
The  farmers  stand  with  scythes  whet,  waiting  the  sub- 
siding of  the  waters,  by  gravitation,  by  evaporation 
or  otherwise,  but  sometimes  their  eyes  do  not  rest, 
their  wheels  do  not  roll,  on  the  quaking  meadow- 
ground  during  the  haying  season  at  all.  So  many 
sources  of  wealth  inaccessible.  They  rate  the  loss 
herebv  incurred  in  the  single  town  of  Wavland  alone 


SATURDAY.  33 

as  equal  to  the  expense  of  keeping  a  hundred  yoke 
of  oxen  the  year  round.  One  year,  as  I  learn,  not 
long  ago,  the  farmers  standing  ready  to  drive  their 
teams  afield  as  usual,  the  water  gave  no  signs  of  fall- 
ing;  without  new  attraction  in  the  heavens,  without 
freshet  or  visible  cause,  still  standing  stagnant  at  an 
unprecedented  height.  All  hydrometers  were  at  fault ; 
some  trembled  for  their  English  even.  But  speedy 
emissaries  revealed  the  unnatural  secret,  in  the  new 
float-board,  wholly  a  foot  in  width,  added  to  their 
already  too  high  privileges  by  the  dam  proprietors. 
The  hundred  yoke  of  oxen,  meanwhile,  standing 
patient,  gazing  wishfully  meadow  ward,  at  that  inac- 
cessible waving  native  grass,  uncut  but  by  the  great 
mower  Time,  who  cuts  so  broad  a  swathe,  without  so 
much  as  a  wis^D  to  wind  about  their  horns. 

That  was  a  long  pull  from  BalPs  Hill  to  Carlisle 
Bridge,  sitting  with  our  faces  to  the  south,  a  slight 
breeze  rising  from  the  north,  but  nevertheless  water 
still  runs  and  grass  grows,  for  now,  having  passed  the 
bridge  between  Carlisle  and  Bedford-  we  see  men  hay- 
ing far  off  in  the  meadow,  their  heads  waving  like  the 
grass  which  they  cut.  In  the  distance  the  wind  seemed 
to  bend  all  alike.  As  the  night  stole  over,  such  a  fresh- 
ness was  wafted  across  the  meadow  that  every  blade 
of  cut-grass  seemed  to  teem  with  life.  Faint  purple 
clouds  began  to  be  reflected  in  the  water,  and  the 
cow-bells  tinkled  louder  along  the  banks,  while,  like 
sly  water  rats,  we  stole  along  nearer  the  shore,  look- 
ing for  a  place  to  pitch  our  camp. 

At  length,  when  we  had  made  about  seven  miles, 
as  far  as  Billerica,  we  moored  our  boat  on  the  west 
side  of  a  little  rising  ground  which  in  the  spring  forms 


34        -i    WEEK   ON   THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

an  island  in  the  river.  Here  we  found  huckleberries  still 
hanging  upon  the  bushes,  where  they  seemed  to  have 
slowly  ripened  for  our  especial  use.  Bread  and  sugar, 
and  cocoa  boiled  in  river  water,  made  our  repast,  and 
as  we  had  drank  in  the  fluvial  prospect  all  day,  so 
now  we  took  a  draught  of  the  water  with  our  evening 
meal  to  propitiate  the  river  gods,  and  whet  our  vision 
for  the  sights  it  was  to  behold.  The  sun  was  setting 
on  the  one  hand,  while  our  eminence  was  contributing 
its  shadow  to  the  night,  on  the  other.  It  seemed  in- 
sensibly to  grow  lighter  as  the  night  shut  in,  and  a 
distant  and  solitary  farm-house  was  revealed,  which 
before  lurked  in  the  shadows  of  the  noon.  There 
was  no  other  house  in  sight,  nor  any  cultivated  field. 
To  the  right  and  left,  as  far  as  the  horizon,  were 
straggling  pine  woods  with  their  plumes  against  the 
sky,  and  across  the  river  were  rugged  hills,  covered 
vvith  shrub  oaks,  tangled  with  grape  vines  and  ivy, 
with  here  and  there  a  gray  rock  jutting  out  from  the 
maze.  The  sides  of  these  cliffs,  though  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  distant,  were  almost  heard  to  rustle  while  we 
looked  at  them,  it  was  such  a  leafy  wilderness  ;  a  place 
for  fauns  and  satyrs,  and  where  bats  hung  all  day  to 
the  rocks,  and  at  evening  flitted  over  the  water,  and 
fireflies  husbanded  their  light  under  the  grass  and 
leaves  against  the  night.  When  we  had  pitched  our 
tents  on  the  hill-side,  a  few  rods  from  the  shore,  we 
sat  looking  through  its  triangular  door  in  the  twilight 
at  our  lonely  mast  on  the  shore,  just  seen  above  the 
alders,  and  hardly  yet  come  to  a  stand-still  from  the 
swaying  of  the  stream  :  the  first  encroachment  of  com- 
merce on  this  land.  There  was  our  port,  our  Ostia. 
That  straight  geometrical  line  against  the  water  and 
the  sky  stood  for  the  last  refinements  of  civilized  life, 


SATURDAY.  35 

and  what  of  sublimity  there  is  in  history  was  there 
symboHzed. 

For  the  most  part,  there  was  no  recognition  of 
human  Hfe  in  the  night,  no  human  breathing  was 
heard,  only  the  breathing  of  the  wind.  As  we  sat 
up,  kept  awake  by  the  novelty  of  our  situation,  we 
heard  at  intervals  foxes  stepping  about  over  the  dead 
leaves,  and  brushing  the  dewy  grass  close  to  our  tent, 
and  once  a  musquash  fumbling  among  the  potatoes 
and  melons  in  our  boat,  but  when  we  hastened  to  the 
shore  we  could  detect  only  a  ripple  in  the  water  ruffling 
the  disk  of  a  star.  At  intervals  we  were  serenaded  by 
the  song  of  a  dreaming  sparrow  or  the  throttled  cry 
of  an  owl,  but  after  each  sound  which  near  at  hand 
broke  the  stillness  of  the  night,  each  crackling  of  the 
twigs,  or  rustling  among  the  leaves,  there  was  a  sudden 
pause,  and  deeper  and  more  conscious  silence,  as  if 
the  intiuder  were  aware  that  no  life  was  rightfully 
abroad  at  that  hour.  There  was  a  fire  in  Lowell,  as 
we  judged,  this  night,  and  we  saw  the  horizon  blaz- 
ing, and  heard  the  distant  alarm  bells,  as  it  were  a 
faint  tinkling  music  borne  to  these  woods.  But  the 
most  constant  and  memorable  sound  of  a  summer's 
night,  which  we  did  not  fail  to  hear  every  night  after- 
ward, though  at  no  time  so  incessantly  and  so  favora- 
bly as  now,  was  the  barking  of  the  house  dogs,  from 
the  loudest  and  hoarsest  bark  to  the  faintest  aerial 
palpitation  under  the  eaves  of  heaven,  from  the  patient 
but  anxious  mastiff  to  the  timid  and  wakeful  terrier, 
at  first  loud  and  rapid,  then  faint  and  slow,  to  be 
imitated  only  in  a  whisper ;  wow-wow-wow-wow  — 
wo — wo — w — w.  Even  in  a  retired  and  uninhabited 
district  like  this,  it  was  a  sufficiency  of  sound  for  the 
ear  of  night,  and  more  impressive  than  any  music. 


36        A    WEEK   OX    THE    COXCORD   RIVER. 

I  have  heard  the  voice  of  a  hound,  just  before  day- 
light, while  the  stars  were  shining,  from  over  the 
woods  and  river,  far  in  the  horizon,  when  it  sounded 
as  sweet  and  melodious  as  an  instrument.  The 
hounding  of  a  dog  pursuing  a  fox  or  other  animal 
in  the  horizon,  may  have  first  suggested  the  notes 
of  the  hunting  horn  to  alternate  with  and  relieve  the 
lungs  of  the  dog.  This  natural  bugle  long  resounded 
in  the  woods  of  the  ancient  world  before  the  horn 
was  invented.  The  very  dogs  that  sullenly  bay  the 
moon  from  farm-yards  in  these  nights,  excite  more 
heroism  in  our  breasts  than  all  the  civil  exhortations 
or  war  sermons  of  the  age.  '•  I  had  rather  be  a  dog, 
and  bay  the  moon,''  than  many  a  Roman  that  I  know. 
The  night  is  equally  indebted  to  the  clarion  of  the 
cock,  with  wakeful  hope,  from  the  very  setting  of  the 
sun,  prematurely  ushering  in  the  dawn.  All  these 
sounds,  the  crowing  of  cocks,  the  baying  of  dogs, 
and  the  hum  of  insects  at  noon,  are  the  evidence  of 
nature's  health  or  soiijid  state.  Such  is  the  never 
failing  beauty  and  accuracy  of  language,  the  most 
perfect  art  in  the  world  ;  the  chisel  of  a  thousand 
years  retouches  it. 

At  length  the  antepenultimate  and  drowsy  hours 
drew  on,  and  all  sounds  were  denied  entrance  to  our 
ears. 

Who  sleeps  by  day  and  walks  by  night, 
Will  meet  no  spirit  but  some  sprite. 


SUNDAY. 

"  The  river  calmly  flows, 
Through  shining  banks,  through  lonely  glen, 
Where  the  owl  shrieks,  though  ne'er  the  cheer  of  men 

Has  stirred  its  mute  repose, 
Still  if  you  should  walk  there,  you  would  go  there  again." 

—  Channing. 

"  The  Indians  tell  us  of  a  beautiful  River  lying  far  to  the 
south,  which  they  call  Merrimac." 

Sieiir  de  A  fonts.     Relations  of  the  yesuits,  1604. 

In  the  morning  the  river  and  adjacent  country  were 
covered  with  a  dense  fog,  through  which  the  smoke 
of  our  fire  curled  up  Kke  a  still  subtiler  mist ;  but 
before  we  had  rowed  many  rods,  the  sun  arose  and 
the  fog  rapidly  dispersed,  leaving  a  slight  steam  only 
to  curl  along  the  surface  of  the  water.  It  was  a  quiet 
Sunday  morning,  with  more  of  the  auroral  rosy  and 
white  than  of  the  yellow  light  in  it,  as  if  it  dated  from 
earlier  than  the  fall  of  man,  and  still  preserved  a 
heathenish  integrity ;  — 

An  early  unconverted  Saint, 

Free  from  noontide  or  evening  taint, 

Heathen  without  reproach. 

That  did  upon  the  civil  day  encroach, 

And  ever  since  its  birth 

Had  trod  the  outskirts  of  the  earth. 

But  the  impressions  which  the  morning  makes 
vanish  with  its  dews,  and  not  even  the  most  "per- 

Z1 


38        -4    WEEK   Oy   THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

severing  mortal"  can  preserve  the  memory  of  its 
freshness  to  mid-day.  As  we  passed  the  various 
islands,  or  what  were  islands  in  the  spring,  rowing 
with  our  backs  down  stream,  we  gave  names  to  them. 
The  one  on  which  we  had  camped  we  called  Fox 
Island,  and  one  fine  densely  wooded  island  sur- 
rounded by  deep  water  and  overrun  by  grape  vines, 
which  looked  like  a  mass  of  verdure  and  of  flowers 
cast  upon  the  waves,  we  named  Grape  Island.  From 
Ball's  Hill  to  Billerica  meeting-house,  the  river  was 
still  twice  as  broad  as  in  Concord,  a  deep,  dark,  and 
dead  stream,  flowing  between  gentle  hills  and  some- 
times cliffs,  and  well  wooded  all  the  way.  It  was  a 
long  woodland  lake  bordered  with  willows.  For  long 
reaches  we  could  see  neither  house  nor  cultivated  field, 
nor  any  sign  of  the  vicinity  of  man.  Now  we  coasted 
along  some  shallow  shore  by  the  edge  of  a  dense  pali- 
sade of  bulrushes,  which  straightly  bounded  the  water 
as  if  dipt  by  art,  reminding  us  of  the  reed  forts  of  the 
East  Indians,  of  which  we  had  read ;  and  now  the 
bank  slightly  raised  was  overhung  with  graceful 
grasses  and  various  species  of  brake,  whose  downy 
stems  stood  closely  grouped  and  naked  as  in  a  vase, 
while  their  heads  spread  several  feet  on  either  side. 
The  dead  limbs  of  the  willow  were  rounded  and 
adorned  by  the  climbing  mikania,  mikajiia  scandcns^ 
which  filled  every  crevice  in  the  leafy  bank,  contrast- 
ing agreeably  with  the  gray  bark  of  its  supporter  and 
the  balls  of  the  button-bush.  The  water  willow,  salix 
Pnrshiaiia,  when  it  is  of  large  size  and  entire,  is  the 
most  graceful  and  ethereal  of  our  trees.  Its  masses 
of  light  green  foliage,  piled  one  upon  another  to  the 
height  of  twenty  or  thirty  feet,  seemed  to  float  on 
the  surface  of  the  water,  while  the  slight  gray  stems 


SUNDA  Y.  39 

and  the  shore  were  hardly  visible  between  them.  No 
tree  is  so  wedded  to  the  water,  and  harmonizes  so  well 
with  still  streams.  It  is  even  more  graceful  than  the 
weeping  willow,  or  any  pendulous  trees,  which  dip 
their  branches  in  the  stream  instead  of  being  buoyed 
up  by  it.  Its  limbs  curved  outward  over  the  surface 
as  if  attracted  by  it.  It  had  not  a  l\ew  England  but 
an  oriental  character,  reminding  us  of  trim  Persian 
gardens,  of  Haroun  Alraschid,  and  the  artificial  lakes 
of  the  east. 

As  we  thus  dipped  our  way  along  between  fresh 
masses  of  foliage  overrun  with  the  grape  and  smaller 
flowering  vines,  the  surface  was  so  calm,  and  both  air 
and  water  so  transparent,  that  the  flight  of  a  king- 
fisher or  robin  over  the  river  was  as  distinctly  seen 
reflected  in  the  water  below  as  in  the  air  above.  The 
birds  seemed  to  flit  through  submerged  groves,  alight- 
ing on  the  yielding  sprays,  and  their  clear  notes  to 
come  up  from  below.  We  were  uncertain  whether 
the  water  floated  the  land,  or  the  land  held  the  water 
m  its  bosom.  It  was  such  a  season,  in  short,  as  that 
in  which  one  of  our  Concord  poets  sailed  on  its  stream, 
and  sung  its  quiet  glories. 

"  There  is  an  inward  voice,  that  in  the  stream 
Sends  forth  its  spirit  to  the  listening  ear, 
And  in  a  calm  content  it  floweth  on. 
Like  wisdom,  welcome  with  its  own  respect. 
Clear  in  its  breast  lie  all  these  beauteous  thoughts, 
It  doth  receive  the  green  and  graceful  trees, 
And  the  gray  rocks  smile  in  its  peaceful  arms,  —  " 

And  more  he  sung,  but  too  serious  for  our  page.  For 
every  oak  and  birch  too  growing  on  the  hill-top,  as 
well  as  for  these  elms  and  willows,  we  knew  that  there 


40         4    WEEK   OX   THE    COXCORD   RIVER. 

was  a  graceful  ethereal  and  ideal  tree  making  down 
from  the  roots,  and  sometimes  nature  in  high  tides 
brings  her  mirror  to  its  foot  and  makes  it  visible. 
The  stillness  was  intense  and  almost  conscious,  as 
if  it  were  a  natural  Sabbath.  The  air  was  so  elastic 
and  crystalline  that  it  had  the  same  effect  on  the  land- 
scape that  a  glass  has  on  a  picture,  to  give  it  an  ideal 
remoteness  and  perfection.  The  landscape  was  clothed 
in  a  mild  and  quiet  light,  in  which  the  woods  and  fences 
checkered  and  partitioned  it  with  new  regularity,  and 
rough  and  uneven  fields  stretched  away  with  lawn-like 
smoothness  to  the  horizon,  and  the  clouds,  finely  dis- 
tinct and  picturesque,  seemed  a  fit  drapery  to  hang 
over  fairy-land.  The  world  seemed  decked  for  some 
holyday  or  prouder  pageantry,  with  silken  streamers 
flying,  and  the  course  of  our  lives  to  wind  on  before 
us  like  a  green  lane  into  a  country  maze,  at  the  season 
when  fruit  trees  are  in  blossom. 

Why  should  not  our  whole  life  and  its  scenery  be 
actually  thus  fair  and  distinct?  All  our  lives  want  a 
suitable  background.  They  should  at  least,  like  the 
life  of  the  anchorite,  be  as  impressive  to  behold  as 
objects  in  the  desert,  a  broken  shaft  or  crumbling 
mound  against  a  limitless  horizon.  Character  always 
secures  for  itself  this  advantage,  and  is  thus  distinct 
and  unrelated  to  near  or  trivial  objects,  whether  things 
or  persons.  On  this  same  stream  a  maiden  once  sailed 
in  my  boat,  thus  unattended  but  by  invisible  guardians, 
and  as  she  sat  in  the  prow  there  was  nothing  but  her- 
self between  the  steersman  and  the  sky.  I  could  then 
say  with  the  poet :  — 

"  Sweet  falls  the  summer  air 
Over  her  frame  who  sails  with  me : 


SUNDAY.  41 

Her  way  like  that  is  beautifully  free, 

Her  nature  far  more  rare, 

And  is  her  constant  heart  of  virgin  purity." 

At  evening  still  the  very  stars  seem  but  this  maiden's 
emissaries  and  reporters  of  her  progress. 

Low  in  the  eastern  sky 
Is  set  thy  glancing  eye; 
And  though  its  gracious  light 
Ne'er  riseth  to  my  sight. 
Yet  every  star  that  climbs 
Above  the  gnarled  limbs 

Of  yonder  hill, 
Conveys  thy  gentle  will. 

Believe  I  knew  thy  thought. 
And  that  the  zephyrs  brought 
Thy  kindest  wishes  through, 
As  mine  they  bear  to  you. 
That  some  attentive  cloud 
Did  pause  amid  the  crowd 

Over  my  head. 
While  gentle  things  were  said. 

Believe  the  thrushes  sung, 
And  that  the  flower  bells  rung. 
That  herbs  exhaled  their  scent, 
And  beasts  knew  what  was  meant. 
The  trees  a  welcome  waved, 
And  lakes  their  margins  laved. 

When  thy  free  mind 
To  my  retreat  did  wind. 

It  was  a  summer  eve. 
The  air  did  gently  heave. 
While  yet  a  low  hung  cloud 
Thy  eastern  skies  did  shroud; 
The  lightning's  silent  gleam, 
Startling  my  drowsy  dream, 
Seemed  like  the  flash 
Under  thy  dark  eyelash. 


42         A    WEEK   OX   THE    CONCORD  RIVER. 

Still  will  I  strive  to  be 
As  if  thou  wert  with  me; 
Whatever  path  I  take, 
It  shall  be  for  thy  sake, 
Of  gentle  slope  and  wide, 
As  thou  wert  by  my  side, 

Without  a  root 
To  trip  thy  gentle  foot. 

I  '11  walk  with  gentle  pace, 
And  choose  the  smoothest  place, 
And  careful  dip  the  oar, 
And  shun  the  winding  shore. 
And  gently  steer  my  boat 
Where  water  lilies  float, 

And  cardinal  flowers 
Stand  in  their  sylvan  bowers. 

It  required  some  rudeness  to  disturb  with  our  boat 
the  mirror-like  surface  of  the  water,  in  which  every 
twig  and  blade  of  grass  was  so  faithfully  reflected ; 
too  faithfully  indeed  for  art  to  imitate,  for  only  nature 
may  exaggerate  herself.  The  shallowest  still  water 
is  unfathomable.  Wherever  the  trees  and  skies  are 
reflected  there  is  more  than  Atlantic  depth,  and  no 
danger  of  fancy  running  aground.  We  noticed  that 
it  required  a  separate  intention  of  the  eye,  a  more  free 
and  abstracted  vision,  to  see  the  reflected  trees  and 
the  sky,  than  to  see  the  river  bottom  merely ;  and  so 
are  there  manifold  visions  in  the  direction  of  every 
object,  and  even  the  most  opaque  reflect  the  heavens 
from  their  surface.  Some  men  have  their  eyes  natu- 
rally intended  to  the  one,  and  some  to  the  other  object. 

"  A  man  that  looks  on  glass, 
On  it  may  stay  his  eye. 
Or,  if  he  pleaseth,  through  it  pass. 
And  the  heavens  espy." 


SUNDA  Y.  43 

Two  men  in  a  skiff,  whom  we  passed  liereabouts, 
floating  buoyantly  amid  the  reflections  of  the  trees, 
like  a  feather  in  mid  air,  or  a  leaf  which  is  wafted 
gently  from  its  twig  to  the  water  without  turning  over, 
seemed  still  in  their  element,  and  to  have  very  deli- 
cately availed  themselves  of  the  natural  laws.  Their 
floating  there  was  a  beautiful  and  successful  experi- 
ment in  natural  philosophy,  and  it  served  to  ennoble  in 
our  eyes  the  art  of  navigation,  for  as  birds  fly  and 
fishes  swim,  so  these  men  sailed.  It  reminded  us 
how  much  fairer  and  nobler  all  the  actions  of  man 
might  be,  and  that  our  life  in  its  whole  economy 
might  be  as  beautiful  as  the  fairest  works  of  art  or 
nature. 

The  sun  lodged  on  the  old  gray  cliifs,  and  glanced 
from  every  pad ;  the  bulrushes  and  flags  seemed  to 
rejoice  in  the  delicious  light  and  air ;  the  meadows 
were  a  drinking  at  their  leisure ;  the  frogs  sat  medi- 
tating, all  Sabbath  thoughts,  summing  up  their  week, 
with  one  eye  out  on  the  golden  sun,  and  one  toe 
upon  a  reed,  eyeing  the  wondrous  universe  in  which 
they  act  their  part ;  the  fishes  swam  more  staid  and 
soberly,  as  maidens  go  to  church ;  shoals  of  golden 
and  silver  minnows  rose  to  the  surface  to  behold  the 
heavens,  and  then  sheered  off  into  more  sombre 
aisles  ;  they  swept  by  as  if  moved  by  one  mind,  con- 
tinually gliding  past  each  other,  and  yet  preserving 
the  form  of  their  battalion  unchanged,  as  if  they  were 
still  embraced  by  the  transparent  membrane  which 
held  the  spawn ;  a  young  band  of  brethren  and 
sisters,  trying  their  new  fins ;  now  they  wheeled, 
now  shot  ahead,  and  when  we  drove  them  to  the 
shore  and  cut  them  oiT,  they  dexterously  tacked 
and    passed    underneath    the    boat.     Over    the    old 


44        -4    WEEK   ON   THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

wooden  bridges  no  traveller  crossed,  and  neither 
the  river  nor  the  fishes  avoided  to  glide  between 
the  abutments. 

Here  was  a  village  not  far  off  behind  the  woods, 
Billerica,  settled  not  long  ago,  and  the  children  still 
bear  the  names  of  the  first  settlers  in  this  late  "  howl- 
ing wilderness ; "  yet  to  all  intents  and  purposes  it  is 
as  old  as  Fernay  or  as  Mantua,  an  old  gray  town, 
where  men  grow  old  and  sleep  already  under  moss- 
grown  monuments, —  outgrow  their  usefulness.  This 
is  ancient  Billerica  (Villarica?),  now  in  its  dotage.  I 
never  heard  that  it  was  young.  See,  is  not  nature 
here  gone  to  decay,  farms  all  run  out,  meeting-house 
grown  gray  and  racked  with  age?  If  you  would 
know  of  its  early  youth,  ask  those  old  gray  rocks  in 
the  pasture.  It  has  a  bell  that  sounds  sometimes  as 
far  as  Concord  woods ;  I  have  heard  that,  aye,  — 
hear  it  now.  No  wonder  that  such  a  sound  startled 
the  dreaming  Indian,  and  frightened  his  game,  when 
the  first  bells  were  swung  on  trees,  and  sounded 
through  the  forest  beyond  the  plantations  of  the  white 
man.  But  to-day  I  like  best  the  echo  amid  these  cliffs 
and  woods.  It  is  no  feeble  imitation,  but  rather  its 
original,  or  as  if  some  rural  Orpheus  played  over  the 
strain  again  to  show  how  it  should  sound. 

Dong,  sounds  the  brass  in  the  east, 
As  if  to  a  funeral  feast, 
But  I  like  that  sound  the  best 
Out  of  the  fluttering  west. 

The  steeple  ringeth  a  knell, 
But  the  fairies'  silvery  bell 
Is  the  voice  of  that  gentle  folk. 
Or  else  the  horizon  that  spoke. 


SUNDA  V.  45 

Its  metal  is  not  of  brass, 
But  air,  and  water,  and  glass, 
And  under  a  cloud  it  is  swung, 
And  by  the  wind  it  is  rung. 

When  the  steeple  toUeth  the  noon. 

It  soundeth  not  so  soon, 

Yet  it  rings  a  far  earlier  hour, 

And  the  sun  has  not  reached  its  tower. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  road  runs  up  to  Carlisle,  city 
of  the  woods,  which,  if  it  is  less  civil,  is  the  more 
natural.  It  does  well  hold  the  earth  together.  It 
gets  laughed  at  because  it  is  a  small  town,  I  know,  but 
nevertheless  it  is  a  place  where  great  men  may  be 
born  any  day,  for  fair  winds  and  foul  blow  right  on 
over  it  without  distinction.  It  has  a  meeting-house 
and  horse-sheds,  a  tavern  and  a  blacksmith''s  shop  for 
centre,  and  a  good  deal  of  wood  to  cut  and  cord  yet. 
And 

"  Bedford,  most  noble  Bedford, 
I  shall  not  thee  forget." 

History  has  remembered  thee ;  especially  that  meek 
and  humble  petition  of  thy  old  planters,  like  the  wail- 
ing of  the  Lord's  own  people,  '•  To  the  gentlemen,  the 
selectmen  "  of  Concord,  praying  to  be  erected  into  a 
separate  parish.  We  can  hardly  credit  that  so  plain- 
tive a  psalm  resounded  but  little  more  than  a  century 
ago  along  these  Babylonish  waters.  "In  the  extreme 
difficult  seasons  of  heat  and  cold,''  said  they,  "  we  were 
ready  to  say  of  the  Sabbath,  Behold  what  a  weariness 
is  it."  —  "Gentlemen,  if  our  seeking  to  draw  off  proceed 
from  any  disaffection  to  our  present  reverend  pastor, 
or  the  Christian  society  with  whom  we  have  taken 
such  sweet  counsel   together,  and  walked   unto   the 


4.6         A    WEEK   OX   THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

house  of  God  in  company,  then  hear  us  not  this  day, 
but  we  greatly  desire,  if  God  please,  to  be  eased  of 
our  burden  on  the  Sabbath,  the  travel  and  fatigue 
thereof,  that  the  word  of  God  may  be  nigh  to  us,  near 
to  our  houses,  and  in  our  hearts,  that  we  and  our  little 
ones  may  serve  the  Lord.  We  hope  that  God,  who 
stirred  up  the  spirit  of  Cyrus  to  set  forward  temple 
work,  has  stirred  us  up  to  ask,  and  will  stir  you  up 
to  grant,  the  prayer  of  our  petition ;  so  shall  your 
humble  petitioners  ever  pray,  as  in  duty  bound, — ."' 
And  so  the  temple  work  went  forward  here  to  a 
happy  conclusion.  Yonder  in  Carlisle  the  building 
of  the  temple  was  many  wearisome  years  delayed,  not 
that  there  was  wanting  of  Shittim  wood,  or  the  gold 
of  Ophir,  but  a  site  therefor  convenient  to  all  the 
worshippers ;  whether  on  '•  Buttrick's  Plain,*'  or 
rather  on  "  Poplar  Hill :  "  it  was  a  tedious  question. 

In  this  Billerica  solid  men  must  have  lived,  select 
from  year  to  year,  a  series  of  town  clerks,  at  least,  and 
there  are  old  records  that  you  may  search.  Some 
spring  the  white  man  came,  built  him  a  house,  and 
made  a  clearing  here,  letting  in  the  sun,  dried  up  a 
farm,  piled  up  the  old  gray  stones  in  fences,  cut  down 
the  pines  around  his  dwelling,  planted  orchard  seeds 
brought  from  the  old  country,  and  persuaded  the 
civil  apple  tree  to  blossom  next  to  the  wild  pine  and 
the  juniper,  shedding  its  perfume  in  the  wilderness. 
Their  old  stocks  still  remain.  He  culled  the  graceful 
elm  from  out  the  woods  and  from  the  river-side,  and 
so  refined  and  smoothed  his  village  plot.  And  thus 
he  plants  a  town.  He  rudely  bridged  the  stream,  and 
drove  his  team  afield  into  the  river  meadows,  cut  the 
wild  grass,  and  laid  bare  the  homes  of  beaver,  otter, 
muskrat,  and  with  the  whetting  of  his  scythe  scared  oft 


SUNDA  V.  47 

the  deer  and  bear.  He  set  up  a  mill,  and  fields  of 
English  grain  sprang  in  the  virgin  soil.  And  with 
his  grain  he  scattered  the  seeds  of  the  dandelion  and 
the  wild  trefoil  over  the  meadows,  mingling  his  Eng- 
lish flowers  with  the  wild  native  ones.  The  bristling 
burdock,  the  sweet  scented  catnip,  and  the  humble 
yarrow,  planted  themselves  along  his  woodland  road, 
they  too  seeking  '•  freedom  to  worship  God  "  in  their 
way.  The  white  man's  mullein  soon  reigned  in 
Indian  corn-fields,  and  sweet  scented  English  grasses 
clothed  the  new  soil.  Where,  then,  could  the  red 
man  set  his  foot?  The  honey  bee  hummed  through 
the  Massachusetts'  woods,  and  sipped  the  wild  flowers 
round  the  Indian's  wigwam,  perchance  unnoticed, 
when,  with  prophetic  warning,  it  stung  the  red  child's 
hand,  forerunner  of  that  industrious  tribe  that  was  to 
come  and  pluck  the  wild  flower  of  his  race  up  by  the 
root. 

The  white  man  comes,  pale  as  the  dawn,  with  a 
load  of  thought,  with  a  slumbering  intelligence  as  a 
fire  raked  up,  knowing  well  what  he  knows,  not 
guessing  but  calculating:  strong  in  community, yield- 
ing obedience  to  authority  ;  of  experienced  race  ;  of 
wonderful,  wonderful  common  sense ;  dull  but  capa- 
ble, slow  but  persevering,  severe  but  just,  of  litt'e 
humor  but  genuine  ;  a  laboring  man,  despising  game 
and  sport ;  building  a  house  that  endures,  a  framed 
house.  He  buys  the  Indian's  moccasins  and  baskets, 
then  buys  his  hunting  grounds,  and  at  length  forgets 
where  he  is  buried,  and  plows  up  his  bones.  And 
here  town  records,  old,  tattered,  time-worn,  weather- 
stained  chronicles,  contain  the  Indian  sachem's  mark, 
perchance  an  arrow  or  a  beaver,  and  the  few  fatal 
words  by  which  he  deeded  his  hunting  grounds  away. 


48         ./    WEEK   Oy   THE    CONCORD  RIVER. 

He  comes  with  a  list  of  ancient  Saxon,  Norman,  and 
Celtic  names,  and  strews  them  up  and  down  this 
river,  —  Framingham.  Sudbur}',  Bedford,  Carlisle,  Bil- 
lerica,  Chelmsford, — and  this  is  New  Angle-land, 
and  these  are  the  new^  West  Saxons,  whom  the  red 
men  call,  not  Angle-ish  or  English,  but  Yengeese, 
and  so  at  last  they  are  known  for  Yankees. 

When  we  were  opposite  to  the  middle  of  Billerica, 
the  fields  on  either  hand  had  a  soft  and  cultivated 
English  aspect,  the  village  spire  being  seen  over  the 
copses  which  skirt  the  river,  and  sometimes  an  orchard 
straggled  down  to  the  water  side,  though,  generally, 
our  course  this  forenoon  was  the  wildest  part  of  our 
voyage.  It  seemed  that  men  led  a  quiet  and  very 
civil  life  there.  The  inhabitants  were  plainly  culti- 
vators of  the  earth,  and  lived  under  an  organized  po- 
litical government.  The  school-house  stood  with  a 
meek  aspect,  entreating  a  long  truce  to  war  and  sav- 
age life.  Every  one  finds  by  his  own  experience,  as 
well  as  in  history,  that  the  era  in  which  men  cultivate 
the  apple,  and  the  amenities  of  the  garden,  is  essen- 
tially different  from  that  of  the  hunter  and  forest  life, 
and  neither  can  displace  the  other  without  loss.  We 
have  all  had  our  day  dreams,  as  well  as  more  pro- 
phetic nocturnal  visions,  but  as  for  farming,  I  am 
convinced  that  my  genius  dates  from  an  older  era 
than  the  agricultural.  I  would  at  least  strike  my 
spade  into  the  earth  with  such  careless  freedom  but 
accuracy  as  the  woodpecker  his  bill  into  a  tree. 
There  is  in  my  nature,  methinks,  a  singular  yearning 
toward  all  wildness.  I  know  of  no  redeeming  quali- 
ties in  myself  but  a  sincere  love  for  some  things,  and 
when  I  am  reproved  I  fall  back  on  to  this  ground. 
What  have  I  to  do  with  plows?     I  cut  another  furrow 


SUNDA  V.  49 

than  you  see.  Where  the  off  ox  treads,  there  is  it 
not,  it  is  further  off;  where  the  nigh  ox  walks,  it 
will  not  be,  it  is  nigher  still.  If  corn  fails,  my  crop 
fails  not,  and  what  are  drought  and  rain  to  me?  The 
rude  Saxon  pioneer  will  sometimes  pine  for  that  re- 
finement and  artificial  beauty  which  are  English,  and 
love  to  hear  the  sound  of  such  sweet  and  classical 
names  as  the  Pentland  and  Malvern  Hills,  the  Cliffs 
of  Dover  and  the  Trossacks,  Richmond,  Derwent,  and 
Winandermere,  which  are  to  him  now  instead  of  the 
Acropolis  and  Parthenon,  of  Baiae,  and  Athens  with 
its  sea  walls,  and  Arcadia  and  Tempe. 

Greece,  who  am  I  that  should  remember  thee, 

Thy  Marathon  and  thy  Thermopylae? 

Is  my  life  vulgar,  my  fate  mean. 

Which  on  these  golden  memories  can  lean? 

We  are  apt  enough  to  be  pleased  with  such  books 
as  Evelyn's  Sylva,  Acetarium,  and  Kalendarium  Hor- 
tense,  but  they  imply  a  relaxed  nerve  in  the  reader. 
Gardening  is  civil  and  social,  but  it  wants  the  vigor 
and  freedom  of  the  forest  and  the  outlaw.  There  may 
be  an  excess  of  cultivation  as  well  as  of  anything  else, 
until  civilization  becomes  pathetic.  A  highly  culti- 
vated man,  —  all  whose  bones  can  be  bent!  whose 
heaven-born  virtues  are  but  good  manners!  The 
young  pines  springing  up  in  the  corn-fields  from  year 
to  year  are  to  me  a  refreshing  fact.  We  talk  of  civil- 
izing the  Indian,  but  that  is  not  the  name  for  his  im- 
provement. By  the  wary  independence  and  aloofness 
of  his  dim  forest  life  he  preserves  his  intercourse  with 
his  native  gods,  and  is  admitted  from  time  to  time  to 
a  rare  and  peculiar  society  with  nature.  He  has 
glances  of  starry  recognition  to  which  our  saloons  are 


50        A    WEEK   OX   THE    CONCORD  RIVER. 

strangers.  The  steady  illumination  of  his  genius, 
dim  only  because  distant,  is  like  the  faint  but  satisfy- 
ing light  of  the  stars  compared  with  the  dazzling  but 
ineffectual  and  short-lived  blaze  of  candles.  The 
Society  Islanders  had  their  day-born  gods,  but  they 
were  not  supposed  to  be  '•  of  equal  antiquity  with  the 
atiiafauau  po,  or  night-born  gods."  It  is  true,  there 
are  the  innocent  pleasures  of  country  life,  and  it  is 
sometimes  pleasant  to  make  the  earth  yield  her  in- 
crease, and  gather  the  fruits  in  their  season,  but  the 
heroic  spirit  will  not  fail  to  dream  of  remoter  retire- 
ments and  more  rugged  paths.  It  will  have  its  gar- 
den plots  and  its  parterres  elsewhere  than  on  the 
earth,  and  gather  nuts  and  berries  by  the  way  for  its 
subsistence,  or  orchard  fruits  w'ith  such  heedlessness 
as  berries.  We  would  not  always  be  soothing  and 
taming  nature,  breaking  the  horse  and  the  ox,  but 
sometimes  ride  the  horse  wild  and  chase  the  buffalo. 
The  Indian's  intercourse  with  Nature  is  at  least  such 
as  admits  of  the  greatest  independence  of  each.  If 
he  is  somewhat  of  a  stranger  in  her  midst,  the  gar- 
dener is  too  much  of  a  familiar.  There  is  something 
vulgar  and  foul  in  the  latter's  closeness  to  his  mistress, 
something  noble  and  cleanly  in  the  former's  distance. 
In  civilization,  as  in  a  southern  latitude,  man  degener- 
ates at  length,  and  yields  to  the  incursion  of  more 
northern  tribes, 

"  Some  nation  yet  shut  in 
With  hills  of  ice." 

There  are  other,  savager.  and  more  primeval  aspects 
of  nature  than  our  poets  have  sung.  It  is  only  white 
man's  poetry.  Homer  and  Ossian  even  can  never 
revive  in  London  or  Boston.     And  vet  behold  how 


SUNDA  V.  5  I 

these  cities  are  refreshed  by  the  mere  tradition,  or 
the  imperfectly  transmitted  fragrance  and  flavor  of 
these  wild  fmits.  If  we  could  listen  but  for  an  instant 
to  the  chaunt  of  the  Indian  muse,  we  should  under- 
stand why  he  will  not  exchange  his  savageness  for 
civilization.  Nations  are  not  whimsical.  Steel  and 
blankets  are  strong  temptations;  but  the  Indian  does 
well  to  continue  Indian. 

After  sitting  in  my  chamber  many  days,  reading  the 
poets,  I  have  been  out  early  on  a  foggy  morning,  and 
heard  the  cry  of  an  owl  in  a  neighboring  wood  as  from 
a  nature  behind  the  common,  unexplored  by  science 
or  by  literature.  None  of  the  feathered  race  has  yet 
realized  my  youthful  conceptions  of  the  woodland 
depths.  I  had  seen  the  red  Election-bird  brought 
from  their  recesses  on  my  comrades'  stiing,  and  fan- 
cied that  their  plumage  would  assume  stranger  and 
more  dazzling  colors,  like  the  tints  of  evening,  in  pro- 
portion as  I  advanced  further  into  the  darkness  and 
solitude  of  the  forest.  Still  less  have  I  seen  such 
strong  and  wild  tints  on  any  poet's  string. 

These  modern  ingenious  sciences  and  arts  do  not 
affect  me  as  those  more  venerable  arts  of  hunting  and 
fishing,  and  even  of  husbandry  in  its  primitive  and 
simple  form  ;  as  ancient  and  honorable  trades  as  the 
sun  and  moon  and  winds  pursue,  coeval  with  the 
faculties  of  man,  and  invented  when  these  were  in- 
vented. We  do  not  know  their  John  Gutenberg,  or 
Richard  Arkwright,  though  the  poets  would  fain  make 
them  to  have  been  gradually  learned  and  taught.  Ac- 
cording to  Gower, 

"And  ladahel,  as  saith  the  boke, 
Firste  made  nette,  and  fislies  toke. 


52         A    WEEK   OX   THE    COXCORD   RIVER. 

Of  huntyng  eke  he  fond  the  chace, 
Whiche  nowe  is  knowe  in  many  place ; 
A  tent  of  clothe,  with  corde  and  stake, 
He  sette  up  first,  and  did  it  make." 

Also,  Lydgate  says : 

Jason  first  sayled,  in  story  it  is  tolde. 
Toward  Colchos,  to  wynne  the  flees  of  golde. 
Ceres  the  Goddess  fond  first  the  tilthe  of  londe ; 

***** 
Also,  Aristeus  fonde  first  the  usage 
Of  mylke,  and  cruddis,  and  of  honey  swote ; 
Peryodes,  for  grete  avauntage. 
From  flyntes  smote  fuyre,  daryng  in  the  roote." 

We  read  that  Aristeus  "obtained  of  Jupiter  and 
Neptune,  that  the  pestilential  heat  of  the  dog  days, 
•wherein  was  great  mortality,  should  be  mitigated  with 
wind/^  This  is  one  of  those  dateless  benefits  con- 
ferred on  man,  which  have  no  record  in  our  vulgar 
day,  though  we  still  find  some  similitude  to  them  in 
our  dreams,  in  which  we  have  a  more  liberal  and 
juster  apprehension  of  things,  unconstrained  by  habit, 
which  is  then  in  some  measure  put  off,  and  divested 
of  memory,  which  we  call  history. 

According  to  fable,  when  the  island  of  .-Egina  was 
depopulated  by  sickness,  at  the  instance  of  ^Eacus, 
Jupiter  turned  the  ants  into  men,  that  is,  as  some 
think,  he  made  men  of  the  inhabitants  who  lived 
meanly  like  ants.  This  is  perhaps  the  fullest  history 
of  those  early  days  extant. 

The  fable  which  is  naturally  and  truly  composed, 
so  as  to  satisfy  the  imagination,  ere  it  addresses  the 
understanding,  beautiful  though  strange  as  a  wild 
flower,  is  to  the  wise  man  an  apothegm,  and  admits 


SUNDAY.  53 

of  his  most  generous  interpretation.  When  we  read 
that  Bacchus  made  the  Tyrrhenian  mariners  mad,  so 
that  they  leapt  into  the  sea,  mistaking  it  for  a  meadow 
full  of  flowers,  and  so  became  dolphins,  we  are  not 
concerned  about  the  historical  truth  of  this,  but  rather 
a  higher  poetical  truth.  We  seem  to  hear  the  music 
of  a  thought,  and  care  not  if  the  understanding  be  not 
gratified.  For  their  beauty,  consider  the  fables  of 
Narcissus,  of  Endymion,  of  Memnon  son  of  Morning, 
the  representative  of  all  promising  youths  who  have 
died  a  premature  death,  and  whose  memory  is  melo- 
diously prolonged  to  the  latest  morning  ;  the  beautiful 
stories  of  Phaeton,  and  of  the  Sirens  whose  isle  shone 
afar  off  white  with  the  bones  of  unburied  men ;  and 
the  pregnant  ones  of  Pan,  Prometheus,  and  the 
Sphynx ;  and  that  long  list  of  names  which  have 
already  become  part  of  the  universal  language  of 
civilized  men,  and  from  proper  are  becoming  common 
names  or  nouns,  —  the  Sibyls,  the  Eumenides,  the 
Parcae,  the  Graces,  the  Muses,  Nemesis,  &c. 

It  is  interesting  to  observe  with  what  singular 
unanimity  the  furthest  sundered  nations  and  genera- 
tions consent  to  give  completeness  and  roundness  to 
an  ancient  fable,  of  which  they  indistinctly  appreciate 
the  beauty  or  the  truth.  By  a  faint  and  dream-like 
effort,  though  it  be  only  by  the  vote  of  a  scientific 
body,  the  dullest  posterity  slowly  add  some  trait  to 
the  mythus.  As  when  astronomers  call  the  lately 
discovered  planet  Neptune ;  or  the  asteroid  Astraea. 
that  the  Virgin  who  was  driven  from  earth  to  heaven 
at  the  end  of  the  golden  age,  may  have  lier  local 
habitation  in  the  heavens  more  distinctly  assigned 
her, — for  the  slightest  recognition  of  poetic  worth  is 
significant.      By  such  slow  aggregation  has  mythol- 


54        '-i    fV££A'   O.V   THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

ogy  grown  from  the  first.  The  very  nursery  tales 
of  this  generation,  were  the  nursery  tales  of  primeval 
races.  They  migrate  from  east  to  west,  and  again 
from  west  to  east;  now  expanded  into  the  'tale 
divine '  of  bards,  now  shrunk  into  a  popular  rhyme. 
This  is  an  approach  to  that  universal  language  which 
men  have  sought  in  vain.  This  fond  reiteration  of 
the  oldest  expressions  of  truth  by  the  latest  poster- 
ity, content  with  slightly  and  religiously  re-touching 
the  old  material,  is  the  most  impressive  proof  of  a 
common  humanity. 

All  nations  love  the  same  jests  and  tales,  Jews, 
Christians,  and  Mahometans,  and  the  same  translated 
suffice  for  all.  All  men  are  children,  and  of  one 
family.  The  same  tale  sends  them  all  to  bed,  and 
wakes  them  in  the  morning.  Joseph  Wolff,  the  mis- 
sionary, distributed  copies  of  Robinson  Crusoe,  trans- 
lated into  Arabic,  among  the  Arabs,  and  they  made 
a  great  sensation.  ••  Robinson  Cmsoe's  adventures 
and  wisdom,"  says  he,  "were  read  by  Mahometans  in 
the  market-places  of  Sanaa,  Hodyeda,  and  Loheya, 
and  admired  and  believed  ! "'  On  reading  the  book, 
the  Arabians  exclaimed,  '•  Oh,  that  Robinson  Crusoe 
must  have  been  a  great  prophet !  '^ 

To  some  extent,  mythology  is  only  the  most  ancient 
history  and  biography.  So  far  from  being  false  or 
fabulous  in  the  common  sense,  it  contains  only  endur- 
ing and  essential  truth,  the  I  and  you,  the  here  and 
there,  the  now  and  then,  being  omitted.  Either  time 
or  rare  wisdom  writes  it.  Before  printing  was  dis- 
covered, a  century  was  equal  to  a  thousand  years. 
The  poet  is  he  who  can  write  some  pure  mythology' 
to-day  without  the  aid  of  posterity.  In  how  few 
words,  for  instance,  the  Greeks  would  have  told  the 


SUNDAY.  55 

story  of  Abelard  and  Heloise,  making  but  a  sentence 
for  our  classical  dictionary,  —  and  then,  perchance 
have  stuck  up  their  names  to  shine  in  some  corner 
of  the  firmament.  We  moderns,  on  the  other  hand, 
collect  only  the  raw  materials  of  biography  and  his- 
tory, "  memoirs  to  serve  for  a  history,'"  which  itself  is 
but  materials  to  serve  for  a  mythology.  How  many 
volumes  folio  would  the  Life  and  Labors  of  Prome- 
theus have  filled,  if  perchance  it  had  fallen,  as  per- 
chance it  did  first,  in  days  of  cheap  printing!  Who 
knows  what  shape  the  fable  of  Columbus  will  at 
length  assume,  to  be  confounded  with  that  of  Jason 
and  the  expedition  of  the  Argonauts.  And  Frank- 
lin, —  there  may  be  a  line  for  him  in  the  future  classi- 
cal dictionary,  recording  what  that  demigod  did,  and 

referring  him  to  some  new  genealogy.     "  Son  of 

and  .     He   aided   the  Americans  to   gain  their 

independence,  instructed  mankind  in  economy,  and 
drew  down  lightning  from  the  clouds." 

The  hidden  significance  of  these  fables  which  is 
sometimes  thought  to  have  been  detected,  the  ethics 
running  parallel  to  the  poetry  and  history,  are  not  so 
remarkable  as  the  readiness  with  wliich  they  may  be 
made  to  express  a  variety  of  truths.  As  if  they  were 
the  skeletons  of  still  older  and  more  universal  truths 
than  any  whose  flesh  and  blood  they  are  for  the  time 
made  to  wear.  It  is  like  striving  to  make  the  sun,  or 
the  wind,  or  the  sea,  symbols  to  signify  exclusively 
the  particular  thoughts  of  our  day.  But  what  signi- 
fies it?  In  the  my  thus  a  superhuman  intelligence 
uses  the  unconscious  thoughts  and  dreams  of  men  as 
its  hieroglyphics  to  address  men  unborn.  In  the 
history  of  the  human  mind,  these  glowing  and  ruddy 
fcil)les    precede    the    noon-day    thoughts   of  men.   as 


$6        A    WEEK   Oy   THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

Aurora  the  sun's  rays.  The  matutine  intellect  of  the 
poet,  keeping  in  advance  of  the  glare  of  philosophy, 
always  dwells  in  this  auroral  atmosphere. 

As  we  said  before,  the  Concord  is  a  dead  stream, 
but  its  scenery  is  the  more  suggestive  to  the  contem- 
plative voyager,  and  this  day  its  water  was  fuller 
of  reflections  than  our  pages  even.  Just  before  it 
reaches  the  falls  in  Billerica  it  is  contracted,  and  be- 
comes swifter  and  shallower,  with  a  yellow  pebbly 
bottom,  hardly  passable  for  a  canal  boat,  leaving  the 
broader  and  more  stagnant  portion  above  like  a  lake 
among  the  hills.  All  through  the  Concord,  Bedford, 
and  Billerica  meadows,  we  had  heard  no  murmur 
from  its  stream,  except  where  some  tributary  nmnel 
tumbled  in, — 

Some  tumultuous  little  rill, 

Purling  round  its  storied  pebble, 
Tinkling  to  the  self-same  tune, 
From  September  until  June, 

Which  no  drought  doth  e'er  enfeeble. 

Silent  flows  the  parent  stream, 

And  if  rocks  do  lie  below. 
Smothers  with  her  waves  the  din, 
As  it  were  a  youthful  sin, 

Just  as  still,  and  just  as  slow. 

But  now  at  length  we  heard  this  staid  and  primitive 
river  rushing  to  her  fall,  Hke  any  rill.  We  here  left 
its  channel,  just  above  the  Billerica  Falls,  and  entered 
the  canal,  which  runs,  or  rather  is  conducted,  six 
miles  through  the  woods  to  the  Merrimack  at  Mid- 
dlesex, and  as  we  did  not  care  to  loiter  in  this  part 
of  our  voyage,  w^hile  one  ran  along  the  tow-path 
drawing  the  boat  by  a  cord,  the  other  kept  it  off  the 


SUNDAY.  57 

shore  with  a  pole,  so  that  we  accomplished  the  whole 
distance  in  little  more  than  an  hour.  This  canal, 
which  is  the  oldest  in  the  country,  and  has  even  an 
antique  look  beside  the  more  modern  railroads,  is  fed 
by  the  Concord,  so  that  we  were  still  floating  on  its 
familiar  waters.  It  is  so  much  water  which  the  river 
lets  for  the  advantage  of  commerce.  There  appeared 
some  want  of  harmony  in  its  scenery,  since  it  was  not 
of  equal  date  with  the  woods  and  meadows  through 
Avhich  it  is  led,  and  we  missed  the  conciliatory  influ- 
ence of  time  on  land  and  water ;  but  in  the  lapse 
of  ages,  Nature  will  recover  and  indemnify  herself, 
and  gradually  plant  fit  shrubs  and  flowers  along  its 
borders.  Already  the  kingfisher  sat  upon  a  pine 
over  the  water,  and  the  bream  and  pickerel  swam 
below.  Thus  all  works  pass  directly  out  of  the 
hands  of  the  architect  into  the  hands  of  Nature,  to 
be  perfected. 

It  was  a  retired  and  pleasant  route,  without  houses 
or  travellers,  except  some  young  men  who  were  loung- 
ing upon  a  bridge  in  Chelmsford,  who  leaned  impu- 
dently over  the  rails  to  pry  into  our  concerns,  but  we 
caught  the  eye  of  the  most  forward,  and  looked  at 
him  till  he  was  visibly  discomfited.  Not  that  there 
was  any  peculiar  efiicacy  in  our  look,  but  rather  a 
sense  of  shame  left  in  him  which  disarmed  him. 

It  is  a  very  true  and  expressive  phrase,  '•  He  looked 
daggers  at  me,-'  for  the  first  pattern  and  prototype 
of  all  daggers  must  have  been  a  glance  of  the  eye. 
First,  there  was  the  glance  of  Jove's  eye,  then  his 
fiery  bolt,  then,  the  material  gradually  hardening, 
tridents,  spears,  javelins,  and  finally,  for  the  con- 
venience of  private  men,  daggers,  krisses,  and  so 
forth,  were  invented.      It  is   wonderful    how  we  get 


58         A    WEEK   ON   THE    CONCORD  RIVER. 

about  the  streets  without  being  wounded  by  these 
delicate  and  glancing  weapons,  a  man  can  so  nimbly 
whip  out  his  rapier,  or  without  being  noticed  carry  it 
unsheathed.  Yet  after  all.  it  is  rare  that  one  gets 
seriously  looked  at. 

As  we  passed  under  the  last  bridge  over  the  canal, 
just  before  reaching  the  Merrimack,  the  people  com- 
ing out  of  church  paused  to  look  at  us  from  above, 
and  apparently,  so  strong  is  custom,  indulged  in 
some  heathenish  comparisons  ;  but  we  were  the  truest 
observers  of  this  sunny  day.     According  to  Hesiod, 

"  The  seventh  is  a  holy  day, 
For  then  Latona  brought  forth  golden-rayed  Apollo," 

and  by  our  reckoning  this  was  the  seventh  day  of  the 
week,  and  not  the  first.  I  find  among  the  papers  of 
an  old  Justice  of  the  Peace  and  Deacon  of  the  town  of 
Concord,  this  singular  memorandum,  which  is  worth 
preserving  as  a  relic  of  an  ancient  custom.  After 
reforming  the  spelling  and  grammar,  it  runs  as  fol- 
lows :  —  •'  Men  that  travelled  with  teams  on  the  Sab- 
bath, Dec.  1 8th,  1803,  were  Jeremiah  Richardson  and 
Jonas  Parker,  both  of  Shirley.  They  had  teams  with 
rigging  such  as  is  used  to  carry  barrels,  and  they  were 
travelling  westward.  Richardson  was  questioned  by 
the  Hon.  Ephraim  Wood,  Esq.,  and  he  said  that 
Jonas  Parker  was  his  fellow  traveller,  and  he  further 
said  that  a  Mr.  Longley  was  his  employer,  who  prom- 
ised to  bear  him  out.''  We  were  the  men  that  were 
gliding  northward,  this  Sept.  ist,  1839,  with  still 
team,  and  rigging  not  the  most  convenient  to  carry 
barrels,  unquestioned  by  any  Squire  or  Church  Dea- 
con, and  ready  to  bear  ourselves  out,  if  need  were. 
In  the  latter  part  of  the  seventeenth  century,  accord- 


SUNDA  Y.  59 

ing  to  the  historian  of  Dunstable,  "Towns  were 
directed  to  erect  '-a  cage''  near  the  meeting-house,  and 
in  this  all  offenders  against  the  sanctity  of  the  Sabbath 
were  confined/'  Society  has  relaxed  a  little  from  its 
strictness,  one  would  say,  but  I  presume  that  there  is 
not  less  religion  than  formerly.  If  the  ligature  is 
found  to  be  loosened  in  one  part,  it  is  only  drawn  the 
tighter  in  another. 

You  can  hardly  convince  a  man  of  an  error  in  a 
life-time,  but  must  content  yourself  with  the  reflection 
that  the  progress  of  science  is  slow.  If  he  is  not 
convinced,  his  grand-children  may  be.  The  geolo- 
gists tell  us  that  it  took  one  hundred  years  to  prove 
that  fossils  are  organic,  and  one  hundred  and  fifty 
more,  to  prove  that  they  are  not  to  be  referred  to  the 
Noachian  deluge.  I  am  not  sure  but  I  should  betake 
myself  in  extremities  to  the  liberal  divinities  of 
Greece,  rather  than  to  my  country's  God.  Jehovah, 
though  with  us  he  has  acquired  new  attributes,  is 
more  absolute  and  unapproachable,  but  hardly  more 
divine,  than  Jove.  He  is  not  so  much  of  a  gentleman, 
among  gods,  not  so  gracious  and  catholic,  he  does  not 
exert  so  intimate  and  genial  an  influence  on  nature, 
as  many  a  god  of  the  Greeks.  I' should  fear  the 
infinite  power  and  inflexible  justice  of  the  almighty 
mortal,  hardly  as  yet  apotheosized,  so  wholly  mascu- 
line, with  no  sister  Juno,  no  Apollo,  no  Venus,  nor 
Minerva,  to  intercede  for  me,  ^u/xw  cfivXeovcrd  re, 
KrjSofxivrj  re.  The  Grecian  are  youthful  and  erring 
and  fallen  gods,  with  the  vices  of  men,  but  in  many 
important  respects  essentially  of  the  divine  race.  In 
my  Pantheon,  Pan  still  reigns  in  his  pristine  glory, 
with  his  ruddy  face,  his  flowing  beard,  and  his  shaggy 
body,  his  pipe  and   his  crook,  his  nymph  Echo,  and 


6o        .-^    WEEK   ON    THE    CONCORD  RIVER. 

his  chosen  daughter  lambe :  for  the  great  God  Pan  is 
not  dead,  as  was  rumored.  Perhaps  of  all  the  gods  of 
New  England  and  of  ancient  Greece,  I  am  most  con- 
stant at  his  shrine. 

It  seems  to  me  that  the  god  that  is  commonly  wor- 
shipped in  civilized  countries  is  not  at  all  divine, 
though  he  bears  a  divine  name,  but  is  the  overwhelm- 
ing authority  and  respectability  of  mankind  combined. 
Men  reverence  one  another,  not  yet  God.  If  I  thought 
that  I  could  speak  with  discrimination  and  impartial- 
ity of  the  nations  of  Christendom,  I  should  praise 
them,  but  it  tasks  me  too  much.  They  seem  to  be 
the  most  civil  and  humane,  but  I  may  be  mistaken. 
Every  people  have  gods  to  suit  their  circumstances ; 
the  Society  Islanders  had  a  god  called  Toahitu,  '•  in 
shape  like  a  dog ;  he  saved  such  as  were  in  danger  of 
falling  from  rocks  and  trees."  I  think  that  we  can  do 
without  him,  as  we  have  not  much  climbing  to  do. 
Among  them  a  man  could  make  himself  a  god  out  of 
a  piece  of  wood  in  a  few  minutes,  which  would  frighten 
him  out  of  his  wits. 

I  fancy  that  some  indefatigable  spinster  of  the  old 
school,  who  had  the  supreme  felicity  to  be  born  in 
'•  days  that  tried  men's  souls,"'  hearing  this,  may  say 
with  Nestor,  another  of  the  old  school,  ''But  you 
are  younger  than  I.  For  time  was  when  I  conversed 
with  greater  men  than  you.  For  not  at  any  time  have 
I  seen  such  men  nor  shall  see  them,  as  Perithous, 
and  Dryas,  and  Trot/xeva  Aacuv,"  that  is  probably 
Washington,  sole  "  Shepherd  of  the  People."  And 
when  Apollo  has  now  six  times  rolled  westward,  or 
seemed  to  roll,  and  now  for  the  sixth  time  shows  his 
face  in  the  east,  eyes  well  nigh  glazed,  long  glassed, 
which  have  fluctuated  only  between  lamb's  wool  and 


SUNDAY.  6 1 

worsted,  explore  ceaselessly  some  good  sermon  book. 
For  six  days  shalt  thou  labor  and  do  all  thy  knitting, 
but  on  the  seventh,  forsooth  thy  reading.  Happy  we 
who  can  bask  in  this  warm  September  sun,  which  illu- 
mines ail  creatures,  as  well  when  they  rest  as  when 
they  toil,  not  without  a  feeling  of  gratitude ;  whose 
life  is  as  blameless,  how  blameworthy  soever  it  may  be, 
on  the  Lord^s  Mona-day  as  on  his  Suna-day. 

There  are  various,  nay  incredible  faiths  ;  why  should 
we  be  alarmed  at  any  of  them  ?  What  man  believes, 
God  believes.  Long  as  I  have  lived,  and  many  blas- 
phemers as  I  have  heard  and  seen,  I  have  never  yet 
heard  or  witnessed  any  direct  and  conscious  blas- 
phemy or  irreverence ;  but  of  indirect  and  habitual 
enough.  Where  is  the  man  who  is  guilty  of  direct 
and  personal  insolence  to  Him  that  made  him  ?  —  Yet 
there  are  certain  current  expressions  of  blasphemous 
modes  of  viewing  things,  —  as,  frequently,  when  we 
say,  "  He  is  doing  a  good  business,"  —  more  profane 
than  cursing  and  swearing.  There  is  sin  and  death 
in  such  words.  Let  not  the  children  hear  them.  — 
My  neighbor  says  that  his  hill  farm  is  "  poor  stuff,'^ 
"only  fit  to  hold  the  world  together,"  —  and  much 
more  to  that  effect.  He  deserves  that  God  should 
give  him  a  better  for  so  free  a  treating  of  his  gifts, 
more  than  if  he  patiently  put  up  therewith.  But 
perhaps  my  farmer  forgets  that  his  lean  soil  has 
sharpened  his  wits.  This  is  a  crop  it  was  good 
for. 

One  memorable  addition  to  the  old  mythology  is 
due  to  this  era,  —  the  Christian  fable.  With  what 
pains,  and  tears,  and  blood,  these  centuries  have 
woven  this  and  added  it  to  the  mythology  of  man- 
kind.    The  new  Prometheus.     With  what  miraculous 


62         A    IVEEK   ON   THE    CONCORD  RIVER. 

consent,  and  patience,  and  persistency,  has  this 
mythus  been  stamped  upon  the  memory  of  the  race  ? 
It  would  seem  as  if  it  were  in  the  progress  of  our 
mythology  to  dethrone  Jehovah,  and  crown  Christ  in 
his  stead. 

If  it  is  not  a  tragical  life  we  live,  then  I  know  not 
what  to  call  it.  Such  a  story  as  that  of  Jesus  Christ, 
—  the  history  of  Jerusalem,  say,  being  a  part  of  the 
Universal  History.  The  naked,  the  embalmed,  un- 
buried  death  of  Jerusalem  amid  its  desolate  hills,  — 
think  of  it.  In  Tasso's  poem  I  trust  some  things  are 
sweetly  buried.  Consider  the  snappish  tenacity  with 
which  they  preach  Christianity  still.  What  are  time 
and  space  to  Christianity,  eighteen  hundred  years,  and 
a  new  world?  —  that  the  humble  life  of  a  Jewish  peas- 
ant should  have  force  to  make  a  New  York  bishop  so 
bigoted.  Forty-four  lamps,  the  gift  of  kings,  now 
burning  in  a  place  called  the  Holy  Sepulchre;  —  a 
church  bell  ringing;  —  some  unaffected  tears  shed  by 
a  pilgrim  on  Mount  Calvary  within  the  week.  — 

••  Jerusalem.  Jerusalem,  when  I  forget  thee,  may  my 
right  hand  forget  her  cunning."" 

"  By  the  waters  of  Babylon  there  we  sat  down,  and 
we  wept  when  we  remembered  Zion." 

I  trust  that  some  may  be  as  near  and  dear  to  Buddha 
or  Christ,  or  Swedenborg,  who  are  without  the  pale 
of  their  churches.  It  is  necessary  not  to  be  Christian, 
to  appreciate  the  beauty  and  significance  of  the  life  of 
Christ.  I  know  that  some  will  have  hard  thoughts  of 
me,  when  they  hear  their  Christ  named  beside  my 
Buddha,  yet  I  am  sure  that  I  am  willing  they  should 
love  their  Christ  more  than  my  Buddha,  for  the  love 
is  the  main  thing,  and  I  like  him  too.  Why  need 
Christians  be  still  intolerant  and  superstitious  ?     The 


SUNDA  Y.  63 

simple  minded  sailors  were  unwilling  to  cast  over- 
board Jonah  at  his  own  request.  — 

"  Where  is  this  love  become  in  later  age? 
Alas  !  't  is  gone  in  endless  pilgrimage 
From  hence,  and  never  to  return,  I  doubt, 
Till  revolution  wheel  those  times  about." 

One  man  says,  — 

"  The  world  's  a  popular  disease,  that  reigns 
Within  the  froward  heart  and  frantic  brains 
Of  poor  distempered  mortals." 

Another  that 

—  '  all  the  woild  's  a  stage, 
And  all  the  men  and  women  merely  players." 

The  world  is  a  strange  place  for  a  play-house  to  stand 
within  it.  Old  Drayton  thought  that  a  man  that  lived 
here,  and  would  be  a  poet,  for  instance,  should  have 
in  him  certain  "  brave  translunary  things,"*'  and  a 
'^  fine  madness  "  should  possess  his  brain.  Certainly 
it  were  as  well,  that  he  might  be  up  to  the  occasion. 
That  is  a  superfluous  wonder,  which  Dr.  Johnson 
expresses  at  the  assertion  of  Sir  Thomas  Browne, 
that  "his  life  has  been  a  miracle  of  thirty  years, 
which  to  relate,  were  not  history,  but  a  piece  of 
poetry,  and  would  sound  like  a  fable."  The  wonder 
is  rather  that  all  men  do  not  assert  as  much. 

Think  what  a  mean  and  wretched  place  this  world 
is ;  that  half  the  time  we  have  to  light  a  lamp  that  we 
may  see  to  live  in  it.  This  is  half  our  life.  Who 
would  undertake  the  enterprise  if  it  were  all?  And, 
pray,  what  more  has  day  to  offer?  A  lamp  that  burns 
more  clear,  a  purer  oil,  say  winter-strained,  that  so 
we  may  pursue  our  idleness  with   less   obstniction. 


64        ^-i    WEEK   OX   THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

Bribed  with  a  little  sunlight  and  a  few  prismatic  tints, 
we  bless  our  Maker,  and  stave  off  his  wrath   with 

hymns. 

I  make  ye  an  offer, 

Ye  gods,  hear  the  scoffer, 

The  scheme  will  not  hurt  you. 

If  ye  will  find  goodness,  I  will  find  virtue. 

Though  I  am  your  creature. 

And  child  of  your  nature, 

I  have  pride  still  unbended, 

And  blood  undescended. 

Some  free  independence, 

And  my  own  descendants. 

I  cannot  toil  blindly. 

Though  ye  behave  kindly, 

And  I  swear  by  the  rood, 

I  '11  be  slave  to  no  God. 

If  ye  will  deal  plainly, 

I  will  strive  mainly, 

If  ye  will  discover, 

Great  plans  to  your  lover. 

And  give  him  a  sphere 

Somewhat  larger  than  here. 

*■'  Verily,  my  angels !  I  was  abashed  on  account  ot 
my  servant,  who  had  no  Providence  but  me ;  there- 
fore did  I  pardon  him." —  The  Gulistan  of  Sadi. 

Most  people  with  whom  I  talk,  men  and  women 
even  of  some  originality  and  genius,  have  their  scheme 
of  the  universe  all  cut  and  dried,  —  very  dry,  I  assure 
you,  to  hear,  dry  enough  to  burn,  dry-rotted  and  pow- 
der-post, methinks,  —  which  they  set  up  between  you 
and  them  in  the  shortest  intercourse ;  an  ancient  and 
tottering  frame  with  all  its  boards  blown  off.  They  do 
not  walk  without  their  bed.  Some  to  me  seemingly 
very  unimportant  and  unsubstantial  things  and  rela- 


SUNDA  V.  65 

tions,  are  for  them  everlastingly  settled,  —  as  Father, 
Son,  and  Holy  Ghost,  and  the  like.  These  are  like 
the  everlasting  hills  to  them.  But  in  all  my  wander- 
ings, I  never  came  across  the  least  vestige  of  author- 
ity for  these  things.  They  have  not  left  so  distinct 
a  trace  as  the  delicate  flower  of  a  remote  geological 
period  on  the  coal  in  my  grate.  The  wisest  man 
preaches  no  doctrines  ;  he  has  no  scheme ;  he  sees 
no  rafter,  not  even  a  cobweb,  against  the  heavens. 
It  is  clear  sky.  If  I  ever  see  more  clearly  at  one  time 
than  at  another,  the  medium  through  which  I  see  is 
clearer.  To  see  from  earth  to  heaven,  and  see  there 
standing,  still  a  fixture,  that  old  Jewish  scheme! 
What  right  have  you  to  hold  up  this  obstacle  to  my 
understanding  you,  to  your  understanding  me!  You 
did  not  invent  it ;  it  was  imposed  on  you.  Examine 
your  authority.  Even  Christ,  we  fear,  had  his  scheme, 
his  conformity  to  tradition,  which  slightly  vitiates  his 
teaching.  He  had  not  swallowed  all  formulas.  He 
preached  some  mere  doctrines.  As  for  me,  Abraham, 
Isaac,  and  Jacob,  are  now  only  the  subtilest  imagi- 
nable essences,  which  would  not  stain  the  morning  sky. 
Your  scheme  must  be  the  framework  of  the  universe ; 
all  other  schemes  will  soon  be  ruins.  The  perfect 
God  in  his  revelations  of  himself  has  never  got  to  the 
length  of  one  such  proposition  as  you,  his  prophets, 
state.  Have  you  learned  the  alphabet  of  heaven,  and 
can  count  three?  Do  you  know  the  number  of  God's 
family?  Can  you  put  mysteries  into  words?  Do  you 
presume  to  fable  of  the  ineffable?  Pray,  what  geog- 
rapher are  you,  that  speak  of  heaven's  topography? 
Whose  friend  are  you  that  speak  of  God's  personality? 
Do  you.  Miles  Howard,  think  that  he  has  made  you 
his  confidant?     Tell  me  of  the  heiirht  of  the  moun- 


66         ./    WEEK  OX   THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

tains  of  the  moon,  or  of  the  diameter  of  space,  and  I 
may  believe  you,  but  of  the  secret  history  of  the  Al- 
mighty, and  I  shall  pronounce  thee  mad.  Yet  we 
have  a  sort  of  family  history  of  our  God,  —  so  have 
the  Tahitians  of  theirs,  —  and  some  old  poet's  grand 
imagination  is  imposed  on  us  as  adamantine  everlast- 
ing truth,  and  God's  own  word  I 

The  New  Testament  is  an  invaluable  book,  though 
I  confess  to  having  been  slightly  prejudiced  against  it 
in  my  very  early  days  by  the  church  and  the  Sabbath 
school,  so  that  it  seemed,  before  I  read  it,  to  be  the 
yellowest  book  in  the  catalogue.  Yet  I  early  escaped 
from  their  meshes.  It  was  hard  to  get  the  commen- 
taries out  of  one's  head,  and  taste  its  true  flavor.  — 
I  think  that  Pilgrim's  Progress  is  the  best  sermon 
which  has  been  preached  from  this  text ;  almost  all 
other  sermons  that  I  have  heard  or  heard  of,  have 
been  but  poor  imitations  of  this.  —  It  would  be  a  poor 
story  to  be  prejudiced  against  the  Life  of  Christ, 
because  the  book  has  been  edited  by  Christians.  In 
fact,  I  love  this  book  rarely,  though  it  is  a  sort  of 
castle  in  the  air  to  me,  which  I  am  permitted  to  dream. 
Having  come  to  it  so  recently  and  freshly,  it  has  the 
greater  charm,  so  that  I  cannot  find  any  to  talk  with 
about  it.  I  never  read  a  novel,  they  have  so  little 
real  life  and  thought  in  them.  The  reading  which  1 
love  best  is  the  scriptures  of  the  several  nations,  though 
it  happens  that  I  am  better  acquainted  with  those  of 
the  Hindoos,  the  Chinese,  and  the  Persians,  than  of 
the  Hebrews,  which  I  have  come  to  last.  Give  me 
one  of  these  Bibles,  and  you  have  silenced  me  for  a 
while.  When  I  recover  the  use  of  my  tongue,  I  am 
wont  to  worry  my  nt;ighl)ors  with  the  new  sentences, 


SUN  DA  V.  67 

but  commonly  they  cannot  see  that  there  is  any  wit  in 
them.  Such  has  been  my  experience  with  the  New 
Testament.  I  have  not  yet  got  to  the  crucifixion,  I 
have  read  it  over  so  many  times.  I  should  love 
dearly  to  read  it  aloud  to  my  friends,  some  of  whom 
are  seriously  inclined  ;  it  is  so  good,  and  I  am  sure  that 
they  have  never  heard  it,  it  fits  their  case  exactly,  and 
we  should  enjoy  it  so  much  together,  —  but  I  instinct- 
ively despair  of  getting  their  ears.  They  soon  show, 
by  signs  not  to  be  mistaken,  that  it  is  inexpressibly 
wearisome  to  them.  I  do  not  mean  to  imply  that  I 
am  any  better  than  my  neighbors ;  for,  alas !  I  know 
that  I  am  only  as  good,  though  I  love  better  books  than 
they.  It  is  remarkable,  that  notwithstanding  the  uni- 
versal favor  with  which  the  New  Testament  is  out- 
wardly received,  and  even  the  bigotry  with  which  it 
is  defended,  there  is  no  hospitality  shown  to,  there  is 
no  appreciation  of,  the  order  of  truth  with  which  it 
deals.  I  know  of  no  book  that  has  so  few  readers. 
There  is  none  so  truly  strange,  and  heretical,  and 
unpopular.  To  Christians,  no  less  than  Greeks  and 
Jews,  it  is  foolishness  and  a  stumbling  block.  There 
are,  indeed,  severe  things  in  it  which  no  man  should 
read  aloud  but  once. — "Seek  first  the  kingdom  of 
heaven."  —  "  Lay  not  up  for  yourselves  treasures  on 
earth."  —  "If  thou  wilt  be  perfect,  go  and  sell  that 
thou  hast,  and  give  to  the  poor,  and  thou  shalt  have 
treasure  in  heaven."  —  "For  what  is  a  man  profited, 
if  he  shall  gain  the  whole  world,  and  lose  his  own 
soul?  or  what  shall  a  man  give  in  exchange  for  his 
soul?"  —  Think  of  this,  Yankees!  —  "Verily  I  say  unto 
you,  if  ye  have  faith  as  a  grain  of  mustard  seed,  ye  shall 
say  unto  this  mountain.  Remove  hence  to  yonder  place  ; 
and  it  shall  remove;  and  nothing  shall  be  imiwssil)]^ 


6S        A   WEEK   ON   THE    CONCORD  RIVER. 

unto  you.'"  —  Think  of  repeating  these  things  to  a 
New  England  audience!  thirdly,  fourthly,  fifteenthly, 
till  there  are  three  barrels  of  sermons!  Who,  without 
cant,  can  read  them  aloud?  Who,  without  cant,  can 
hear  them,  and  not  go  out  of  the  meeting-house? 
They  never  were  read,  they  never  iue?'e  heard.  Let 
but  one  of  these  sentences  be  rightly  read  from  any 
pulpit  in  the  land,  and  there  would  not  be  left  one 
stone  of  that  meeting-house  upon  another. 

Yet  the  New  Testament  treats  of  man  and  man's 
so-called  spiritual  affairs  too  exclusively,  and  is  too 
constantly  moral  and  personal,  to  alone  content  me, 
who  am  not  interested  solely  in  man's  religious  or 
moral  nature,  or  in  man  even.  I  have  not  the  most 
definite  designs  on  the  future.  Absolutely  speaking. 
Do  unto  others  as  you  would  that  they  should  do  unto 
you,  is  by  no  means  a  golden  rule,  but  the  best  of  cur- 
rent silver.  An  honest  man  would  have  but  little 
occasion  for  it.  It  is  golden  not  to  have  any  rule  at 
all  in  such  a  case.  The  book  has  never  been  written 
which  is  to  be  accepted  without  any  allowance.  Christ 
was  a  sublime  actor  on  the  stage  of  the  world.  He 
knew  what  he  was  thinking  of  when  he  said,  "  Heaven 
and  earth  shall  pass  away,  but  my  words  shall  not  pass 
away."'  I  draw  near  to  him  at  such  a  time.  Yet  he 
taught  mankind  but  imperfectly  how  to  live ;  his 
thoughts  were  all  directed  toward  another  world. 
There  is  another  kind  of  success  than  his.  Even 
here  we  have  a  sort  of  living  to  get.  and  must  buffet 
it  somewhat  longer.  There  are  various  tough  prob- 
lems yet  to  solve,  and  we  must  make  shift  to  live, 
betwixt  spirit  and  matter,  such  a  human  life  as  we 
can. 


SUNDA  V.  69 

A  healthy  man,  with  steady  employment,  as  wood 
chopping  at  fifty  cents  a  cord,  and  a  camp  in  the 
woods,  will  not  be  a  good  subject  for  Christianity. 
The  New  Testament  may  be  a  choice  book  to  him 
on  some,  but  not  on  all  or  most  of  his  days.  He  will 
rather  go  a-fishing  in  his  leisure  hours.  The  apostles, 
though  they  were  fishers  too,  were  of  the  solemn  race 
of  sea-fishers,  and  never  trolled  for  pickerel  on  inland 
streams. 

Men  have  a  singular  desire  to  be  good  without 
being  good  for  anything,  because,  perchance,  they 
think  vaguely  that  so  it  will  be  good  for  them  in 
the  end.  The  sort  of  morality  which  the  priest 
inculcates  is  a  very  subtle  policy,  far  finer  than  the 
politicians,  and  the  world  is  very  successfully  ruled 
by  them  as  the  policemen.  It  is  not  worth  the  while 
to  let  our  imperfections  disturb  us  always.  The  con- 
science really  does  not,  and  ought  not  to,  monopolize 
the  whole  of  our  lives,  any  more  than  the  heart  or  the 
head.  It  is  as  liable  to  disease  as  any  other  part.  I 
have  seen  some  whose  consciences,  owing  undoubtedly 
to  former  indulgence,  had  grown  to  be  as  irritable  as 
spoilt  children,  and  at  length  gave  them  no  peace. 
They  did  not  know  when  to  swallow  their  cud,  and 
their  lives  of  course  yielded  no  milk. 

Conscience  is  instinct  bred  in  the  house, 

Feeling  and  Thinking  propagate  the  sin 

By  an  unnatural  breeding  in  and  in. 

I  say,  Turn  it  out  doors, 

Into  the  moors. 

I  love  a  life  whose  plot  is  simple, 

And  does  not  thicken  with  every  pimple; 

A  soul  so  sound  no  sickly  conscience  binds  it, 

That  makes  the  universe  no  worse  than  't  finds  it. 

I  love  an  earnest  soul. 


yo      A    WEEK   ON   THE    CONCORD  RIVER. 

Whose  mighty  joy  and  sorrow- 
Are  not  drowned  in  a  bowl, 
And  brought  to  life  to-morrow  ; 
That  lives  one  tragedy. 
And  not  seventy; 
A  conscience  worth  keeping, 
Laughing  not  weeping ; 
A  conscience  wise  and  steady, 
And  forever  ready ; 
Not  changing  with  events. 
Dealing  in  compliments; 
A  conscience  exercised  about 
Large  things,  where  one  may  doubt, 
I  love  a  soul  not  all  of  wood. 
Predestinated  to  be  good. 
But  true  to  the  backbone 
Unto  itself  alone, 
And  false  to  none  ; 
Born  to  its  own  affairs. 
Its  own  joys  and  own  cares; 
By  whom  the  work  which  God  begun 
Is  finished,  and  not  undone; 
Taken  up  where  he  left  off. 
Whether  to  worship  or  to  scoff; 
If  not  good,  why  then  evil. 
If  not  good  god,  good  devil. 
Goodness  ! — you  hypocrite,  come  out  of  that. 
Live  your  life,  do  your  work,  then  take  your  hat. 
I  have  no  patience  towards 
Such  conscientious  cowards. 
Give  me  simple  laboring  folk, 
Who  love  their  work, 
Whose  virtue  is  a  song 
To  cheer  God  along. 

I  was  once  reproved  by  a  minister  who  was  driv- 
ing a  poor  beast  to  some  meeting-house  horse-sheds 
among  the  hills  of  New  Hainpshire,  because  I  was 
bending  my  steps  to  a  mountain-top  on  the  Sabbath, 
instead  of  a  church,  when  I  would  have  i{one  further 


SUNDAY.  71 

than  he  to  hear  a  true  word  spoken  on  that  or  any 
day.  He  declared  that  I  was  "breaking  the  Lord's 
fourth  commandment,"  and  proceeded  to  enumerate, 
in  a  sepulchral  tone,  the  disasters  which  had  befallen 
him  whenever  he  had  done  any  ordinary  work  on  the 
Sabbath.  He  really  thought  that  a  gOd  was  at  work 
to  trip  up  those  men  who  followed  any  secular  work 
on  this  day,  and  did  not  see  that  it  was  the  evil  con- 
science of  the  workers  that  did  it.  The  country  is 
full  of  this  superstition,  so  that  when  one  enters  a 
village,  the  church,  not  only  really  but  from  associa- 
tion, is  the  ugliest  looking  building  in  it,  because  it 
is  the  one  in  which  human  nature  stoops  the  lowest 
and  is  most  disgraced.  Certainly,  such  temples  as 
these  shall  ere  long  cease  to  deform  the  landscape. 

If  I  should  ask  the  minister  of  Middlesex  to  let  me 
speak  in  his  pulpit  on  a  Sunday,  he  would  object, 
because  I  do  not  pray  as  he  does,  or  because  I  am 
not  ordained.     What  under  the  sun  are  these  things  ? 

Really,  there  is  no  infidelity,  now-a-days,  so  great 
as  that  which  prays,  and  keeps  the  Sabbath,  and 
rebuilds  the  churches.  The  sealer  of  the  South 
Pacific  preaches  a  truer  doctrine.  The  church  is  a 
sort  of  hospital  for  men's  souls,  and  as  full  of  quackery 
as  the  hospital  for  their  bodies.  Those  who  are  taken 
into  it  live  like  pensioners  in  their  Retreat  or  Sailor's 
Snug  Harbor,  where  you  may  see  a  row  of  religious 
cripples  sitting  outside  in  sunny  weather.  Let  not 
the  apprehension  that  he  may  one  day  have  to  occupy 
a  ward  therein,  discourage  the  cheerful  labors  of  the 
able-souled  man.  While  he  remembers  the  sick  in 
their  extremities,  let  him  not  look  thither  as  to  his 
goal.  One  is  sick  at  heart  of  this  pagoda  worship. 
It  is  like   the    beating  of  gongs  in  a   Hindoo  sub- 


72 


A    WEEK   ON   THE    COXCORD  RIVER. 


terranean  temple.  In  dark  places  and  dungeons 
the  preacher's  words  might  perhaps  strike  root  and 
grow,  but  not  in  broad  daylight  in  any  part  of  the 
world  that  I  know.  The  sound  of  the  Sabbath  bell 
far  away,  now  breaking  on  these  shores,  does  not 
awaken  pleasiftg  associations,  but  melancholy  and 
sombre  ones  rather.  One  involuntarily  rests  on  his 
oar,  to  humor  his  unusually  meditative  mood.  It 
is  as  the  sound  of  many  catechisms  and  religious 
books  twanging  a  canting  peal  round  the  earth,  seem- 
ing to  issue  from  some  Egyptian  temple  and  echo 
along  the  shore  of  the  Nile,  right  opposite  to  Pha- 
raoh's palace  and  Moses  in  the  bulrushes,  startling  a 
multitude  of  storks  and  alligators  basking  in  the  sun. 

Everywhere  "good  men  "  sound  a  retreat,  and  the 
word  has  gone  forth  to  fall  back  on  innocence.  Fall, 
forward  rather  on  to  whatever  there  is  there.  Chris- 
tianity only  hopes.  It  has  hung  its  harp  on  the 
willows,  and  cannot  sing  a 'song  in  a  strange  land. 
It  has  dreamed  a  sad  dream,  and  does  not  yet  wel- 
come the  morning  with  joy.  The  mother  tells  her 
falsehoods  to  her  child,  but  thank  Heaven,  the  child 
does  not  grow  up  in  its  parent's  shadow.  Our  mother's 
faith  has  not  grown  with  her  experience.  Her  experi- 
ence has  been  too  much  for  her.  The  lesson  of  life 
was  too  hard  for  her  to  learn. 

It  is  remarkable,  that  almost  all  speakers  and  writers 
feel  it  to  be  incumbent  on  them,  sooner  or  (ater. 
to  prove  or  to  acknowledge  the  personality  of  God. 
Some  Earl  of  Bridgewater,  thinking  it  better  late  than 
never,  has  provided  for  it  in  his  will.  It  is  a  sad 
mistake.  In  reading  a  work  on  agriculture,  we  have 
to  skip  the  author's  moral  reflections,  and  the  words 
"  Providence  ""  and  '•  He  ''  scattered  along  the  page, 


SUNDA  V.  73 

to  come  at  the  profitable  level  of  what  he  has  to  say. 
What  he  calls  his  religion  is  for  the  most  part  oifen- 
sive  to  the  nostrils.  He  should  know  better  than 
expose  himself,  and  keep  his  foul  sores  covered  till 
they  are  quite  healed.  There  is  more  religion  in 
men's  science  than  there  is  science  in  their  religion. 
Let  us  make  haste  to  the  report  of  the  committee  on 
swine. 

A  man's  real  faith  is  never  contained  in  his  creed, 
nor  is  his  creed  an  article  of  his  faith.  The  last  is 
never  adopted.  This  it  is  that  permits  him  to  smile 
ever,  and  to  live  even  as  bravely  as  he  does.  And 
yet  he  clings  anxiously  to  his  creed,  as  to  a  straw, 
thinking  that  that  does  him  good  service  because  his 
sheet  anchor  does  not  drag. 

In  most  men's  religion,  the  ligature,  which  should 
be  its  umbilical  cord  connecting  them  with  divinity, 
is  rather  like  that  thread  which  the  accomplices  of 
Cylon  held  in  their  hands  when  they  went  abroad 
from  the  temple  of  Minerva,  the  other  end  being 
attached  to  the  statue  of  the  goddess.  But  fre- 
quently, as  in  their  case,  the  thread  breaks,  being 
stretched,  and  they  are  left  without  an  asylum. 

'^  A  good  and  pious  man  reclined  his  head  on  the 
bosom  of  contemplation,  and  was  absorbed  in  the 
ocean  of  a  revery.  At  the  instant  when  he  awaked 
from  his  vision,  one  of  his  friends,  by  way  of  pleas- 
antry, said :  What  rare  gift  have  you  brought  us  from 
that  garden,  where  you  have  been  recreating?  He 
replied ;  I  fancied  to  myself  and  said,  when  I  can 
reach  the  rose-bower,  I  will  fill  my  lap  with  the  flow- 
ers, and  bring  them  as  a  present  to  my  friends ;  but 
when  I  got  there,  the  fragrance  of  the  roses  so  intoxi- 


74      -i    ^VKEK  Oy   THE    COXCORD   RIVER. 

cated  me.  that  the  skirt  dropped  from  my  hands. — 
*  O  bird  of  dawn  !  learn  the  warmth  of  affection  from 
the  moth ;  for  that  scorched  creature  gave  up  the 
ghost,  and  uttered  not  a  groan  :  These  vain  pretend- 
ers are  ignorant  of  him  they  seek  after ;  for  of  him 
that  knew  him  we  never  heard  again  :  — O  thou!  who 
towerest  above  the  flights  of  conjecture,  opinion,  and 
comprehension  ;  whatever  has  been  reported  of  thee 
we  have  heard  and  read;  the  congregation  is  dis- 
missed, and  Hfe  drawn  to  a  close ;  and  we  still  rest  at 
our  first  encomium  of  thee!  "'  —  Sadi. 

By  noon  we  were  let  down  into  the  Merrimack 
through  the  locks  at  Middlesex,  just  above  Pawtucket 
Falls,  by  a  serene  and  liberal-minded  man,  who  came 
quietly  from  his  book,  though  his  duties,  we  supposed, 
did  not  require  him  to  open  the  locks  on  Sundays. 
With  him  we  had  a  just  and  equal  encounter  of  the 
eyes,  as  between  two  honest  men. 

The  movements  of  the  eyes  express  the  perpetual 
and  unconscious  courtesy  of  the  parties.  It  is  said, 
that  a  rogue  does  not  look  you  in  the  face,  neither 
does  an  honest  man  look  at  you  as  if  he  had  his  rep- 
utation to  establish.  I  have  seen  some  who  did  not 
know  when  to  turn  aside  their  eyes  in  meeting  yours. 
A  truly  confident  and  magnanimous  spirit  is  wiser 
than  to  contend  for  the  mastery  in  such  encounters. 
Serpents  alone  conquer  by  the  steadiness  of  their 
gaze.  My  friend  looks  me  in  the  face  and  sees  me, 
that  is  all. 

The  best  relations  were  at  once  established  between 
us  and  this  man,  and  though  few  words  were  spoken, 
he  could  not  conceal  a  visible  interest  in  us  and  our 
excursion.     He  was  a  lover  of  the  higher  mathemat- 


SUNDA  Y.  75 

ics,  as  we  found,  and  in  the  midst  of  some  vast  sunny 
problem,  when  we  overtook  him  and  whispered  our 
conjectures.  By  this  man  we  were  presented  with 
the  freedom  of  the  Merrimack.  We  now  felt  as  if  we 
were  fairly  launched  on  the  ocean-stream  of  our  voy- 
age, and  were  pleased  to  find  that  our  boat  would 
float  on  Merrimack  water.  We  began  again  busily 
to  put  in  practice  those  old  arts  of  rowing,  steering, 
and  paddling.  It  seemed  a  strange  phenomenon  to 
us  that  the  two  rivers  should  mingle  their  waters  so 
readily,  since  we  had  never  associated  them  in  our 
thoughts. 

As  we  glided  over  the  broad  bosom  of  the  Merri- 
mack, between  Chelmsford  and  Dracut,  at  noon,  here 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  wide,  the  rattling  of  our  oars  was 
echoed  over  the  water  to  those  villages,  and  their 
slight  sounds  to  us.  Their  harbors  lay  as  smooth 
and  fairy-like  as  the  Lido,  or  Syracuse,  or  Rhodes,  in 
our  imagination,  while,  like  some  strange  roving  craft, 
we  flitted  past  what  seemed  the  dwellings  of  noble 
home-staying  men,  seemingly  as  conspicuous  as  if  on 
an  eminence,  or  floating  upon  a  tide  which  came  up 
to  those  villagers'  breasts.  At  a  third  of  a  mile  over 
the  water  we  heard  distinctly  some  children  repeat- 
ing their  catechism  in  a  cottage  near  the  shore,  while 
in  the  broad  shallows  between,  a  herd  of  cows  stood 
lashing  their  sides,  and  waging  war  with  the  flies. 

Two  hundred  years  ago  other  catechising  than  this 
was  going  on  here ;  for  here  came  the  sachem  Wan- 
nalancet,  and  his  people,  and  sometimes  Tahatawan, 
our  Concord  Sachem,  who  afterwards  had  a  church 
at  home,  to  catch  fish  at  the  falls ;  and  here  also 
came  John  Elliot,  with  the  Bible  and  Catechism,  and 
Baxter's  Call  to  the  Unconverted,  and  other  tracts. 


76      A   WEEK  ON   THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

done  into  the  Massachusetts  tongue,  and  taught  them 
Christianity  meanwhile.  "  This  place,"  says  Gookin, 
referring  to  Wamesit, 

'•  being  an  ancient  and  capital  seat  of  Indians,  they 
come  to  fish  ;  and  this  good  man  takes  this  opportu- 
nity to  spread  the  net  of  the  gospel,  to  fish  for  their 
souls."  —  "May  5th,  1674,"  he  continues,  "according 
to  our  usual  custom,  Mr.  Eliot  and  myself  took  our 
journey  to  Wamesit,  or  Pawtuckett ;  and  arriving  there 
that  evening,  Mr.  Eliot  preached  to  as  many  of  them 
as  could  be  got  together,  out  of  Matt.  xxii.  1-14,  the 
parable  of  the  marriage  of  the  king's  son.  We  met 
at  the  wigwam  of  one  called  Wannalancet,  about 
two  miles  from  the  town,  near  Pawtuckett  falls,  and 
bordering  upon  Merrimak  river.  This  person,  Wan- 
nalancet, is  the  eldest  son  of  old  Pasaconaway,  the 
chiefest  sachem  of  Pawtuckett.  He  is  a  sober  and 
grave  person,  and  of  years,  between  fifty  and  sixty. 
He  hath  been  always  loving"  and  friendly  to  the  Eng- 
lish."" As  yet,  however,  they  had  not  prevailed  on 
him  to  embrace  the  Christian  religion.  *'  But  at  this 
time,"  says  Gookin,  "May  6,  1674,"  —  "after  some 
deliberation  and  serious  pause,  he  stood  up,  and  made 
a  speech  to  this  effect :  —  'I  must  acknowledge  I  have, 
all  my  days,  used  to  pass  in  an  old  canoe,  (alluding 
to  his  frequent  custom  to  pass  in  a  canoe  upon  the 
river)  and  now  you  exhort  me  to  change  and  leave 
my  old  canoe,  and  embark  in  a  new  canoe,  to  which 
I  have  hitherto  been  unv»illing ;  but  now  I  yield  up 
myself  to  your  advice,  and  enter  into  a  new  canoe, 
and  do  engage  to  pray  to  God  hereafter.'  "  One  "Mr. 
Richard  Daniel,  a  gentleman  that  lived  in  Billerica." 
who   with   other  "  persons  of  quality ""  was   present. 


suNDA  V.  yy 

"desired  brother  Eliot  to  tell  the  sachem  from  him, 
that  it  may  be,  while  he  went  in  his  old  canoe,  he 
passed  in  a  quiet  stream ;  but  the  end  thereof  was 
death  and  destruction  to  soul  and  body.  But  now  he 
went  into  a  new  canoe,  perhaps  he  would  meet  with 
storms  and  trials,  but  yet  he  should  be  encouraged  to 
persevere,  for  the  end  of  his  voyage  would  be  ever- 
lasting rest." — "Since  that  time,  I  hear  this  sachem 
doth  persevere,  and  is  a  constant  and  diligent  hearer 
of  God's  word,  and  sanctifieth  the  Sabbath,  though 
he  doth  travel  to  Wamesit  meeting  every  Sabbath, 
which  is  above  two  miles ;  and  though  sundry  of  his 
people  have  deserted  him,  since  he  subjected  to  the 
gospel,  yet  he  continues  and  persists." — GookiiCs 
Hist.  Coll.  of  the  Indians  in  Neiv  England^  1674. 

Already,  as  appears  from  the  records,  "At  a  General 
Court  held  at  Boston  in  New  England,  the  7th  of  the 
first  month,  1643-4.'"  —  "  Wassamequin,  Nashoonon, 
Kutchamaquin,  Massaconomet,  and  Squaw  Sachem, 
did  voluntarily  submit  themselves "  to  the  Enghsh  ; 
and  among  other  things  did  "promise  to  be  willing 
from  time  to  time  to  be  instructed  in  the  knowledge 
of  God."  Being  asked  "  Not  to  do  any  unnecessary 
work  on  the  Sabbath  day,  especially  within  the  gates 
of  Christian  towns,"  they  answered,  "It  is  easy  to 
them ;  they  have  not  much  to  do  on  any  day,  and 
they  can  well  take  their  rest  on  that  day."— "So," 
says  Winthrop,  in  his  Journal,  "  we  causing  them  to 
understand  the  articles,  and  all  the  ten  commandments 
of  God,  and  they  freely  assenting  to  all,  they  were 
solemnly  received,  and  then  presented  the  Court  with 
twenty-six  fathom  more  of  wampom  ;  and  the  Court 
gave  each  of  them  a  coat  of  two  yards  of  cloth,  and 
their  dinner;  and  to  them  and  their   men,  every  of 


yS       A    IVEEK    OiV   THE   COX  CORD   RIVER. 

them,  a  cup  of  sack  at  their  departure ;  and  so  they 
took  leave  and  went  away." 

What  journeying  on  foot  and  on  horseback  through 
the  wilderness,  to  preach  the  gospel  to  these  minks 
and  muskrats!  who  first,  no  doubt,  listened  with  their 
red  ears  out  of  a  natural  hospitality  and  courtesy,  and 
afterward  from  curiosity  or  even  interest,  till  at  length 
there  were  '-praying  Indians,"''  and,  as  the  General 
Court  wrote  to  Cromwell,  the  "  work  is  brought  to 
this  perfection,  that  some  of  the  Indians  themselves 
can  pray  and  prophesy  in  a  comfortable  manner."' 

It  was  in  fact  an  old  battle  and  hunting  ground 
through  which  we  had  been  floating,  the  ancient 
dwelling-place  of  a  race  of  hunters  and  warriors. 
Their  weirs  of  stone,  their  arrowheads  and  hatchets, 
their  pestles,  and  the  mortars  in  which  they  pounded 
Indian  corn  before  the  white  man  had  tasted  it,  lay 
concealed  in  the  mud  of  the  river  bottom.  Tradition 
still  points  out  the  spots  where  they  took  fish  in  the 
greatest  numbers,  by  such  arts  as  they  possessed. 
It  is  a  rapid  story  the  historian  will  have  to  put  to- 
gether. Miantonimo.  —  Winthrop,  —  Webster.  Soon 
he  comes  from  Mount  Hope  to  Bunker  Hill,  from 
bear-skins,  parched  corn,  bows  and  arrows,  to  tiled 
roofs,  wheat  fields,  guns  and  swords.  Pawtucket  and 
Wamesit,  where  the  Indians  resorted  in  the  fishing 
season,  are  now  Lowell,  the  city  of  spindles  and  Man- 
chester of  America,  which  sends  its  cotton  cloth 
round  the  globe.  Even  we  youthful  voyagers  had 
spent  a  part  of  our  lives  in  the  village  of  Chelmsford, 
when  the  present  city,  whose  bells  we  heard,  was  its 
obscure  north  district  only,  and  the  giant  weaver  was 
not  yet  fairly  born.     So  old  are  we  ;  so  young  is  it. 


SUNDA  V.  79 

We  were  thus  entering  the  State  of  New  Hamp- 
shire on  the  bosom  of  the  flood  formed  by  the  tribute 
of  its  innumerable  valleys.  The  river  was  the  only 
key  which  could  unlock  its  maze,  presenting  its  hills 
and  valleys,  its  lakes  and  streams,  in  their  natural 
order  and  position.  The  Merrimack,  or  Sturgeon 
River,  is  formed  by  the  confluence  of  the  Pemigewasset, 
which  rises  near  the  Notch  of  the  White  Mountains, 
and  the  Winnepisiogee.  which  drains  the  lake  of  the 
same  name,  signifying  "The  Smile  of  the  Great 
Spirit."  From  their  junction  it  iims  south  seventy- 
eight  miles  to  Massachusetts,  and  thence  east  thirty- 
five  miles  to  the  sea.  I  have  traced  its  stream  from 
where  it  bubbles  out  of  the  rocks  of  the  White  Moun- 
tains above  the  clouds,  to  where  it  is  lost  amid  the 
salt  billows  of  the  ocean  on  Plum  Island  beach.  At 
first  it  comes  on  murmuring  to  itself  by  the  base  of 
stately  and  retired  mountains,  through  moist  primitive 
woods  whose  juices  it  receives,  where  the  bear  still 
drinks  it,  and  the  cabins  of  settlers  are  far  between, 
and  there  are  few  to  cross  its  stream  ;  enjoying  in 
solitude  its  cascades  still  unknown  to  fame ;  by  long 
ranges  of  mountains  of  Sandwich  and  of  Squam. 
slumbering  like  tumuli  of  Titans,  with  the  peaks  of 
Moosehillock,  the  Haystack,  and  Kearsarge  reflected 
in  its  waters ;  where  the  maple  and  the  raspberry, 
those  lovers  of  the  hills,  flourish  amid  temperate 
dews ;  —  flowing  long  and  full  of  meaning,  but  un- 
translatable as  its  name  Pemigewasset,  by  many  a 
pastured  Pelion  and  Ossa,  where  unnamed  muses 
haunt,  tended  by  Oreads,  Dryads,  Naiads,  and  receiv- 
ing the  tribute  of  many  an  untasted  Hippocrene. 
There  are  earth,  air,  fire,  and  water,  —  very  well,  this 
is  water,  and  down  it  comes. 


8o      A   WEEK   OX   THE    COXCORD   RIVER. 

Such  water  do  the  gods  distil. 
And  pour  down  every  hill 

For  their  New  England  men  ; 
A  draught  of  this  wild  nectar  bring, 
And  I  'II  not  taste  the  spring 

Of  Helicon  again. 

Falling  all  the  way,  and  yet  not  discouraged  by  ttie 
lowest  fall.  By  the  law  of  its  birth  never  to  become 
stagnant,  for  it  has  come  out  of  the  clouds,  and  down 
the  sides  of  precipices  worn  in  the  flood,  through 
beaver  dams  broke  loose,  not  splitting  but  splicing 
and  mending  itself,  until  it  found  a  breathing  place  in 
this  low  land.  There  is  no  danger  now  that  the  sun 
will  steal  it  back  to  heaven  again  before  it  reach  the 
sea,  for  it  has  a  warrant  even  to  recover  its  own  dews 
into  its  bosom  again  with  interest  at  every  eve. 

It  was  already  the  water  of  Squam  and  Newfound 
Lake  and  Winnepisiogee,  and  White  Mountain  snow 
dissolved,  on  which  we  were  floating,  and  Smith's 
and  Baker's  and  Mad  rivers,  and  Nashua  and  Souhe- 
gan  and  Piscataquoag,  and  Suncook  and  Soucook  and 
Contoocook.  mingled  in  incalculable  proportions,  still 
fluid,  yellowish,  restless  all,  with  an  ancient,  ineradi- 
cable inclination  to  the  sea. 

So  it  flows  on  down  by  Lowell  and  Haverhill,  at 
which  last  place  it  first  sufi"ers  a  sea  change,  and  a  few 
masts  betray  the  vicinity  of  the  ocean.  Between  the 
towns  of  Amesbury  and  Newbury  it  is  a  broad  com- 
mercial river,  from  a  third  to  half  a  mile  in  width,  no 
longer  skirted  with  yellow  and  crumbling  banks,  but 
backed  by  high  green  hills  and  pastures,  with  frequent 
white  beaches  on  whicli  the  fishermen  draw  up  their 
nets.  I  have  passed  down  this  portion  of  the  river  in 
a  steam-boat,  and  it  was  a  pleasant  sight  to  watch 


SUNDAY.  8 1 

from  its  deck  the  fishermen  dragging  their  seines  on 
the  distant  shore,  as  in  pictures  of  a  foreign  strand. 
At  intervals  you  may  meet  with  a  schooner  laden  with 
lumber,  standing  up  to  Haverhill,  or  else  lying  at 
anchor  or  aground,  waiting  for  wind  or  tide  ;  until,  at 
last,  you  glide  under  the  famous  Chain  Bridge,  and 
are  landed  at  Newburyport.  Thus  she  who  at  first 
was  ''poore  of  waters,  naked  of  renowne,"  having 
received  so  many  fair  tributaries,  as  was  said  of  the 
Forth, 

"  Doth  grow  the  greater  still,  the  further  downe ; 
Till  that  abounding  both  in  power  and  fame, 
She  long  doth  strive  to  gii^e  the  sea  her  name ;  " 

or  if  not  her  name,  in  this  case,  at  least  the  impulse 
of  her  stream.  From  the  steeples  of  Newburyport, 
you  may  review  this  river  stretching  far  up  into  the 
country,  with  many  a  white  sail  glancing  over  it  like 
an  inland  sea,  and  behold,  as  one  wrote  who  was  born 
on  its  head-waters,  ''  Down  out  at  its  mouth,  the  dark 
inky  main  blending  with  the  blue  above.  Plum 
Island,  its  sand  ridges  scolloping  along  the  horizon 
like  the  sea  serpent,  and  the  distant  outline  broken 
by  many  a  tall  ship,  leaning,  still,  against  the  sky."" 

Rising  at  an  equal  height  with  the  Connecticut,  the 
Merrimack  reaches  the  sea  by  a  course  only  half  as 
long,  and  hence  has  no  leisure  to  form  broad  and 
fertile  meadows  like  the  former,  but  is  huriied  along 
rapids,  and  down  numerous  falls  without  long  delay. 
The  banks  are  generally  steep  and  high,  with  a  narrow 
interval  reaching  back  to  the  hills,  which  is  only  oc- 
casionally and  partially  overflown  at  present,  and  is 
much  valued  by  the  farmers.  Between  Chelmsford 
and  Concord  in  New  Hampshire,  it  varies  from  twenty 


82       A    WEEK   OX    7^HE   COXCORD   RIVER. 

to  seventy-five  rods  in  width.  It  is  probably  wider 
than  it  was  formerly,  in  many  places,  owing  to  the 
trees  having  been  cut  down,  and  the  consequent  wasting 
away  of  its  banks.  The  influence  of  the  Pawtucket 
dam  is  felt  as  far  up  as  Cromwell's  Falls,  and  many 
think  that  the  banks  are  being  abraded  and  the  river 
filled  up  again  by  this  cause.  Like  all  our  rivers,  it  is 
liable  to  freshets,  and  the  Pemigewasset  has  been 
known  to  rise  twenty-five  feet  in  a  few  hours.  It 
is  navigable  for  vessels  of  burden  about  twenty 
miles,  for  canal  boats  by  means  of  locks  as  far  as 
Concord  in  New  Hampshire,  about  seventy-five  miles 
from  its  mouth,  and  for  smaller  boats  to  Plymouth, 
one  hundred  and  thirteen  miles.  A  small  steam-boat 
once  plied  between  Lowell  and  Nashua,  before  the 
railroad  was  built,  and  one  now  runs  from  Newbury- 
port  to  Haverhill. 

Unfitted  to  some  extent  for  the  purposes  of  com- 
merce by  the  sand-bar  at  its  mouth,  see  how  this  river 
was  devoted  from  the  first  to  the  service  of  manu- 
factures. Issuing  from  the  iron  region  of  Franconia, 
and  flowing  through  still  uncut  forests,  by  inexhausti- 
ble ledges  of  granite,  with  Squam,  and  Winnepisiogee, 
and  Newfound,  and  Massabesic  lakes  for  its  mill- 
ponds,  it  falls  over  a  succession  of  natural  dams,  where 
it  has  been  offering  its  privileges  in  vain  for  ages, 
until  at  last  the  Yankee  race  came  to  impro7>e  them. 
Standing  here  at  its  mouth,  look  up  its  sparkling 
stream  to  its  source,  —  a  silver  cascade  which  falls  all 
the  way  from  the  White  Mountains  to  the  sea,  —  and 
behold  a  city  on  each  successive  plateau,  a  busy  col- 
ony of  human  beaver  around  every  fall.  Not  to  men- 
tion Newburyport  and  Haverhill,  see  Lawrence,  and 
Lowell,  and  Nashua,  and  Manchesterj  and  Concord, 


SUN  DA  Y.  83 

gleaming  one  above  the  other.  When  at  length  it 
has  escaped  from  under  the  last  of  the  factories  it  has 
a  level  and  unmolested  passage  to  the  sea,  a  mere 
waste  zuater,  as  it  were,  bearing  little  with  it  but  its 
fame ;  its  pleasant  course  revealed  by  the  morning 
fog  which  hangs  over  it,  and  the  sails  of  the  few  small 
vessels  which  transact  the  commerce  of  Haverhill  and 
Newburyport.  But  its  real  vessels  are  railroad  cars, 
and  its  true  and  main  stream,  flowing  by  an  iron  chan- 
nel further  south,  may  be  traced  by  a  long  line  of 
vapor  amid  the  hills,  which  no  morning  wind  ever 
disperses,  to  where  it  empties  into  the  sea  at  Boston. 
This  side  is  the  louder  murmur  now.  Instead  of  the 
scream  of  a  fish-hawk  scaring  the  fishes,  is  heard  the 
whistle  of  the  steam-engine,  arousing  a  country  to  its 
progress. 

This  river  too  was  at  length  discovered  by  the  white 
man,  "  trending  up  into  the  land,"'  he  knew  not  how 
far,  possibly  an  inlet  to  the  South  Sea.  Its  valley, 
as  far  as  the  Winnepisiogee,  w-as  first  surveyed  in 
1652.  The  first  settlers  of  Massachusetts  supposed 
that  the  Connecticut,  in  one  part  of  its  course,  ran 
north-west,  "so  near  the  great  lake  as  the  Indians 
do  pass  their  canoes  into  it  over  land."  From  which 
lake  and  the  '•  hideous  swamps  "  about  it,  as  they  sup- 
posed, came  all  the  beaver  that  was  traded  between 
Virginia  and  Canada,  —  and  the  Potomac  was  thought 
to  come  out  of  or  from  very  near  it.  Afterward  the 
Connecticut  came  so  near  the  course  of  the  Merri- 
mack, that  with  a  little  pains  they  expected  to  divert 
the  current  of  the  trade  into  the  latter  river,  and  its 
profits  from  their  Dutch  neighbors  into  their  own 
pockets. 


84       -4    WEEK   ON    THE   CONCORD  RIVER. 

Unlike  the  Concord,  the  Merrimack  is  not  a  dead 
but  a  living  stream,  though  it  has  less  life  within  its 
waters  and  on  its  banks.  It  has  a  swift  current,  and, 
in  this  part  of  its  course,  a  clayey  bottom,  almost  no 
weeds,  and,  comparatively,  few  fishes.  We  looked 
down  into  its  yellow  water  with  the  more  curiosity, 
who  were  accustomed  to  the  Nile-like  blackness  of 
the  former  river.  Shad  and  alewives  are  taken  here 
in  their  season,  but  salmon,  though  at  one  time  more 
numerous  than  shad,  are  now  more  rare.  Bass,  also, 
are  taken  occasionally;  but  locks  and  dams  have 
proved  more  or  less  destructive  to  the  fisheries.  The 
shad  make  their  appearance  early  in  May,  at  the  same 
time  with  the  blossoms  of  the  pyrus.  one  of  the  most 
conspicuous  early  flowers,  which  is  for  this  reason 
called  the  shad-blossom.  An  insect,  called  the  shad- 
fly,  also  appears  at  the  same  time,  covering  the  houses 
and  fences.  We  are  told  that  "their  greatest  run  is 
when  the  apple  trees  are  in  full  blossom.  The  old 
shad  return  in  August ;  the  young,  three  or  four  inches 
long,  in  September.  These  are  very  fond  of  flies.'' 
A  rather  picturesque  and  luxurious  mode  of  fishing 
was  formerly  practised  on  the  Connecticut,  at  Bellows 
Falls,  where  a  large  rock  divides  the  stream.  '•  On 
the  steep  sides  of  the  island  rock,"'  says  Belknap, 
"  hang  several  arm  chairs,  fastened  to  ladders,  and 
secured  by  a  counterpoise,  in  which  fishermen  sit  to 
catch  salmon  and  shad  with  dipping  nets."'  The 
remains  of  Indian  weirs,  made  of  large  stones,  are 
still  to  be  seen  in  the  Winnepisiogee,  one  of  the 
head-waters  of  this  river. 

It  cannot  but  affect  our  philosophy  favorably  to 
be  reminded  of  these  shoals  of  migratory  fishes,  of 
salmon,  shad,  alewives,  marsh-bankers,  and   others, 


SUNDAY.  85 

which  penetrate  up  the  innumerable  rivers  of  our  coast 
in  the  spring,  even  to  the  interior  lakes,  their  scales 
gleaming  in  the  sun ;  and  again,  of  the  fry,  which 
in  still  greater  numbers  wend  their  way  downward 
to  the  sea.  '••  And  is  it  not  pretty  sport,"  wrote  Capt. 
John  Smith,  who  was  on  this  coast  as  early  as  1614, 
'•  to  pull  up  twopence,  sixpence,  and  twelvepence,  as 
fast  as  you  can  haul  and  veer  a  line  ? ''  —  "  And  what 
sport  doth  yield  a  more  pleasing  content,  and  less 
hurt  or  charge,  than  angling  with  a  hook,  and  cross- 
ing the  sweet  air  from  isle  to  isle,  over  the  silent 
streams  of  a  calm  sea/' 

On  the  sandy  shore,  opposite  the  Glass-house  vil- 
lage in  Chelmsford,  at  the  Great  Bend,  where  we 
landed  to  rest  us  and  gather  a  few  wild  plums,  we 
discovered  the  campamila  rotiindifolia^  a  new  flower 
to  us,  the  harebell  of  the  poets,  wdiich  is  common  to 
both  hemispheres,  growing  close  to  the  water.  Here, 
in  the  shady  branches  of  an  apple  tree  on  the  sand, 
w^e  took  our  nooning,  where  there  was  not  a  zephyr 
to  disturb  the  repose  of  this  glorious  Sabbath  day, 
and  we  reflected  serenely  on  the  long  past  and  suc- 
cessful labors  of  Latona. 

"  So  silent  is  the  cessile  air, 
That  every  cry  and  call, 
The  hills  and  dales,  and  forest  fair, 
Again  repeats  them  all. 

"The  herds  beneath  some  leafy  trees. 
Amidst  the  flowers  they  lie, 
The  stable  ships  upon  the  seas 
Tend  up  their  sails  to  dry." 

As  we  thus  rested  in  the  shade,  or  rowed  leisurely 
along,  we  had  recourse,  from  time  to   time,  to   the 


86       .-1    WEEK   ON    THE   CONCORD   RIVER. 

Gazetteer,  which  was  our  Navigator,  and  from  its 
bald  natural  facts  extracted  the  pleasure  of  poetry. 
Beaver  river  comes  in  a  little  lower  down,  draining  the 
meadows  ofPelham,  Windham,  and  Londonderry.  The 
Scotch-Irish  settlers  of  the  latter  town,  according  to 
this  authority,  were  the  first  to  introduce  the  potato  into 
New  England,  as  well  as  the  manufacture  of  linen  cloth. 
Everything  that  is  printed  and  bound  in  a  book 
contains  some  echo  at  least  of  the  best  that  is  in 
literature.  Indeed,  the  best  books  have  a  use  like 
sticks  and  stones,  which  is  above  or  beside  their 
design,  not  anticipated  in  the  preface,  nor  concluded 
in  the  appendix.  Even  Virgil's  poetry  serves  a  very 
different  use  to  me  to-day  from  what  it  did  to  his 
contemporaries.  It  has  often  an  acquired  and  acci- 
dental value  merely,  proving  that  man  is  still  man 
in  the  world.  It  is  pleasant  to  meet  with  such  still 
lines  as, 

"  Jam  laeto  turgent  in  palmite  gemmae;  " 
Now  the  buds  swell  on  the  joyful  stem  ; 
or 

"  Strata  jacent  passim  sua  quosque  sub  arbore  poma." 
The  apples  lie  scattered  everywhere,  each  under  its  tree. 

In  an  ancient  and  dead  language,  any  recognition 
of  living  nature  attracts  us.  These  are  such  sentences 
as  were  written  while  grass  grew  and  water  ran.  It  is 
MO  small  recommendation  when  a  book  will  stand  the 
test  of  mere  unobstructed  sunshine  and  daylight. 

What  would  we  not  give  for  some  great  poem  to 
read  now.  which  would  be  in  harmony  with  the 
scenery,  —  for  if  men  read  aright,  methinks  they 
would  never  read  anything  but  poems.  No  history 
nor  philosophy  can  supply  their  place. 


SUNDA  V.  87 

The  wisest  definition  of  poetry  the  poet  will  instantly 
prove  false  by  setting  aside  its  requisitions.  We  can, 
therefore,  publish  only  our  advertisement  of  it. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  the  loftiest  written  wisdom 
is  either  rhymed,  or  in  some  way  musically  measured, 
—  is,  in  form  as  well  as  substance,  poetry ;  and  a 
volume  which  should  contain  the  condensed  wisdom 
of  mankind,  need  not  have  one  rhythmless  line. 

Yet  poetr)',  though  the  last  and  finest  result,  is  a 
natural  fruit.  As  naturally  as  the  oak  bears  an  acorn, 
and  the  vine  a  gourd,  man  bears  a  poem,  either  spoken 
or  done.  It  is  the  chief  and  most  memorable  success, 
for  history  is  but  a  prose'  narrative  of  poetic  deeds. 
What  else  have  the  Hindoos,  the  Persians,  the  Baby- 
lonians, the  Egyptians  done,  that  can  be  told?  It  is 
the  simplest  relation  of  phenomena,  and  describes  the 
commonest  sensations  with  more  truth  than  science 
does,  and  the  latter  at  a  distance  slowly  mimics  its 
style  and  methods.  The  poet  sings  how  the  blood 
flows  in  his  veins.  He  performs  his  functions,  and  is 
so  well  that  he  needs  such  stimulus  to  sing  only  as 
plants  to  put  forth  leaves  and  blossoms.  He  would 
strive  in  vain  to  modulate  the  remote  and  transient 
music  which  he  sometimes  hears,  since  his  song  is 
a  vital  function  like  breathing,  and  an  integral  result 
like  weight.  It  is  not  the  overflowing  of  life  but  of 
its  subsidence  rather,  and  is  drawn  from  under  the 
feet  of  the  poet.  It  is  enough  if  Homer  but  say  the 
sun  sets.  He  is  as  serene  as  nature,  and  we  can 
hardly  detect  the  enthusiasm  of  the  bard.  It  is  as 
if  nature  spoke.  He  presents  to  us  the  simplest 
pictures  of  human  life,  so  that  childhood  itself  can 
understand  them,  and  the  man  must  not  think  twice 
to  appreciate  his  naturalness.     Each  reader  discovers 


SS       A    WEEK   OX   THE   CONCORD   RIVER. 

for  himself,  that,  with  respect  to  the  simpler  features 
of  nature,  succeeding  poets  have  done  little  else  than 
copy  his  similes.  His  more  memorable  passages  are 
as  naturally  bright,  as  gleams  of  sunshine  in  misty 
weather.  Nature  furnishes  him  not  only  with  words, 
but  with  stereotyped  lines  and  sentences  from  her 
mint. 

"As  from  the  clouds  appears  the  full  moon, 
All  shining,  and  then  again  it  goes  behind  the  shadowy  clouds, 
So  Hector,  at  one  time  appeared  among  the  foremost. 
And  at  another  in  the  rear,  commanding;  and  all  with  brass 
He  shone,  like  to  the  lightning  of  aegis-bearing  Zeus." 

He  conveys  the  least  information,  even  the  hour  of 
the  day,  with  such  magnificence  and  vast  expense  of 
natural  imagery,  as  if  it  were  a  message  from  the  gods. 

"  While  it  was  dawn,  and  sacred  day  was  advancing, 
For  that  space  the  weapons  of  both  flew  fast,  and  the  people 

fell; 
But  when  now  the  woodcutter  was  preparing  his  morning  meal , 
In  the  recesses  of  the  mountain,  and  had  wearied  his  hands 
With  cutting  lofty  trees,  and  satiety  came  to  his  mind, 
And  the  desire  of  sweet  food  took  possession  of  his  thoughts  ; 
Then  the  Danaans,  by  their  valor,  broke  the  phalanxes. 
Shouting  to  their  companions  from  rank  to  rank." 

When  the  army  of  the  Trojans  passed  the  night 
under  arms,  keeping  watch  lest  the  enemy  should 
re-embark  under  cover  of  the  dark, 

"  They,  thinking  great  things,  upon  the  neutral  ground  of  war 
Sat  all  the  night ;  and  many  fires  burned  for  them. 
As  when  in  the  heavens  the  stars  round  the  bright  moon 
Appear  beautiful,  and  the  air  is  without  wind ; 
And  all  the  heights,  and  the  extreme  summits. 
And  the  wooded  sides  of  the  mountains  appear ;  and  from  the 
heavens  an  infinite  ether  is  diffused. 


SUNDA  V.  89 

And  all  the  stars  are  seen ;  and  the  shepherd  rejoices  in  his 

heart ; 
So  between  the  ships  and  the  streams  of  Xanthus 
Appeared  the  fires  of  the  Trojans  before  Ilium. 
A  thousand  fires  burned  on  the  plain  ;  and  by  each 
Sat  fifty,  in  the  light  of  the  blazing  fire ; 
And  horses  eating  white  barley  and  corn, 
Standing  by  the  chariots,  awaited  fair-throned  Aurora." 

The  "white-armed  goddess  Juno/''  sent  by  the 
Fatlier  of  gods  and  men  for  Iris  and  Apollo, 

"  Went  down  the  Idsean  mountains  to  far  Olympus, 
As  when  the  mind  of  a  man,  who  has  come  over  much  earth, 
Sallies  forth,  and  he  reflects  with  rapid  thoughts, 
There  was  I,  and  there,  and  remembers  many  things; 
So  swiftly  the  august  Juno  hastening  flew  through  the  air, 
And  came  to  high  Olympus." 

His  scenery  is  always  true,  and  not  invented.  He 
does  not  leap  in  imagination  from  Asia  to  Greece, 
through  mid  air, 

fTretTj  fxdXa  iroWa  fxera^u 

"Ovped  re  crKioePTa,  6a\d<rcra  re  r^xv^o'c^o- 

for  there  are  very  many 

Shady  mountains  and  resounding  seas  between. 

If  his  messengers  repair  but  to  the  tent  of  Achilles, 
we  do  not  wonder  how  they  got  there,  but  accompany 
them  step  by  step  along  the  shore  of  the  resounding 
sea.  Nestor's  account  of  the  march  of  the  Pylians 
against  the  Epeians  is  extremely  lifelike.  — 

"  Then  rose  up  to  them  sweet-worded  Nestor,  the  shrill  orator 
of  the  Pylians, 
And  words  sweeter  than  honey  flowed  from  his  tongue." 

This  time,  however,  lie  addresses  Patroclus  alone. 
—  "A  certain  river,  Minyas  by  name,  leaps  seaward 


90      ./    WEEK   ON   THE   COXCORD   RIVER. 

near  to  Arene,  where  we  Pylians  wait  the  dawn,  both 
horse  and  foot.  Thence  with  all  haste  we  sped  as  on 
the  morrow  ere  "t  was  noon-day.  accoutred  for  the  fight, 
even  to  Alpheus'  sacred  source,  (Szc.''  We  fancy  that 
we  hear  the  subdued  murmuring  of  the  Minyas  dis- 
charging its  waters  into  the  main  the  live-long  night, 
and  the  hollow  sound  of  the  waves  breaking  on  the 
shore,  —  until  at  length  we  are  cheered  at  the  close 
of  a  toilsome  march  by  the  gurgling  fountains  of 
Alpheus. 

There  are  few  books  which  are  fit  to  be  remembered 
in  our  wisest  hours,  but  the  Iliad  is  brightest  in  the 
serenest  days,  and  embodies  still  all  the  sunlight  that 
fell  on  Asia  Minor.  No  modern  joy  or  ecstasy  of  ours 
can  lower  its  height,  or  dim  its  lustre,  but  there  it  lies 
in  the  east  of  literature,  as  it  were  the  earliest  and 
latest  production  of  the  mind.  The  ruins  of  Egypt 
oppress  and  stifle  us  with  their  dust,  foulness  pre- 
served in  cassia  and  pitch,  and  swathed  in  linen : 
the  death  of  that  which  never  lived.  But  the  rays 
of  Greek  poetry  struggle  down  to  us.  and  mingle 
with  the  sunbeams  of  the  recent  day.  The  statue 
of  Memnon  is  cast  down,  but  the  shaft  of  the  Iliad 
still  meets  the  sun  in  his  rising.  — 

"  Homer  is  gone  ;  and  where  is  Jove  ?  and  where 
The  rival  cities  seven  ?     His  song  outlives 
Time,  tower,  and  god,  — all  that  then  was  save  Heaven." 

So  too,  no  doubt.  Homer  had  his  Homer,  and 
Orpheus  his  Orpheus,  in  the  dim  antiquity  which 
preceded  them.  The  mythological  system  of  the 
ancients,  and  it  is  still  the  mythology  of  the  moderns, 
the  poem  of  mankind,  interwoven  so  wonderfully  with 
their  astronomv,  and  matching  in  grandeur  and  har- 


SUiVDA  Y.  91 

mony  the  architecture  of  the  heavens  themselves, 
seems  to  point  to  a  time  when  a  mightier  genius  in- 
habited the  earth.  But  after  all,  man  is  the  great 
poet,  and  not  Homer  or  Shakspeare ;  and  our  lan- 
guage itself,  and  the  common  arts  of  life  are  his 
work.  Poetry  is  so  universally  true  and  independent 
of  experience,  that  it  does  not  need  any  particular 
biography  to  illustrate  it,  but  we  refer  it  sooner  or 
later  to  some  Orpheus  or  Linus,  and  after  ages  to  the 
genius  of  humanity,  and  the  gods  themselves. 

It  would  be  worth  the  while  to  select  our  reading, 
for  books  are  the  society  we  keep ;  to  read  only  the 
serenely  true ;  never  statistics,  nor  fiction,  nor  news, 
nor  reports,  nor  periodicals,  but  only  great  poems^ 
and  when  they  failed,  read  them  again,  or  perchance 
write  more.  Instead  of  other  sacrifice,  we  might  offer 
up  our  perfect  (reAeta)  thoughts  to  the  gods,  daily,  in 
hymns  or  psalms.  For  we  should  be  at  the  helm  at 
least  once  a  day.  The  whole  of  the  day  should  not 
be  day-time  ;  there  should  be  one  hour,  if  no  more, 
which  the  day  did  not  bring  forth.  Scholars  are  wont 
to  sell  their  birthright  for  a  mess  of  learning.  But  is 
it  necessary  to  know  what  the  speculator  prints,  or  the 
thoughtless  study,  or  the  idle  read,  the  literature  of 
the  Russians  and  the  Chinese,  or  even  French  phi- 
losophy and  much  of  German  criticism.  Read  the 
best  books  first,  or  you  may  not  have  a  chance  to  read 
them  at  all.  "There  are  the  worshippers  with  offer- 
ings, and  the  worshippers  with  mortifications ;  and 
again  the  worshippers  with  enthusiastic  devotion ;  so 
there  are  those,  the  wisdom  of  whose  reading  is  their 
worship,  men  of  subdued  passions,  and  severe  man- 
ners ; —  This  world    is    not   for   him   who    doth    not 


92      ./    WEEK   OX   THE   COXCORD   RIVER. 

worship :  and  where,  O  Arjoon,  is  there  another  ?  ■' 
Certainly,  we  do  not  need  to  be  soothed  and  enter- 
tained always  like  children.  He  who  resorts  to  the 
easy  novel,  because  he  is  languid,  does  no  better  than 
if  he  took  a  nap.  The  front  aspect  of  great  thoughts 
can  only  be  enjoyed  by  those  who  stand  on  the  side 
whence  they  arrive.  Books,  not  which  afford  us  a 
cowering  enjoyment,  but  in  which  each  thought  is 
of  unusual  daring ;  such  as  an  idle  man  cannot  read, 
and  a  timid  one  would  not  be  entertained  by,  which 
even  make  us  dangerous  ■to  existing  institutions,  — 
such  call  I  good  books. 

All  that  are  printed  and  bound  are  not  books ;  they 
do  not  necessarily  belong  to  letters,  but  are  oftener  to 
be  ranked  with  the  other  luxuries  and  appendages  of 
civilized  life.  Base  wares  are  palmed  off  under  a  thou- 
sand disguises.  "  The  way  to  trade,"  as  a  pedler  once 
told  me,  "  is  to  put  it  right  thyoitgJu^  no  matter  what 
it  is,  anything  that  is  agreed  on.  — 

"  You  grov'ling  worldlings,  you  whose  wisdom  trades 
Where  light  ne'er  shot  his  golden  ray." 

By  dint  of  able  writing  and  pen-craft,  books  are  cun- 
ningly compiled,  and  have  their  run  and  success  even 
among  the  learned,  as  if  they  were  the  result  of  a  new 
man's  thinking,  and  their  birth  were  attended  with 
some  natural  throes.  But  in  a  little  while  their  covers 
fall  off,  for  no  binding  will  avail,  and  it  appears  that 
they  are  not  Books  or  Bibles  at  all.  There  are  new 
and  patented  inventions  in  this  shape,  purporting  to 
be  for  the  elevation  of  the  race,  which  many  a  pure 
scholar  and  genius  who  has  learned  to  read  is  for  a 
moment  deceived  by,  and  finds  himself  reading  a 
liorse-rake,  or   spinning  jcnnv.  or   wooden   nutmeg, 


SUNDA  V.  93 

or  oak-leaf  cigar,  or  steam-power  press,  or  kitchen 
range,  perchance,  when  he  was  seeking  serene  and 
biblical  truths.  — 

"  Merchants,  arise, 
And  mingle  conscience  with  your  merchandise." 

Paper  is  cheap,  and  authors  need  not  now  erase  one 
book  before  they  write  another.  Instead  of  cultivat- 
ing the  earth  for  wheat  and  potatoes,  they  cultivate 
literature,  and  fill  a  place  in  the  Republic  of  Letters. 
Or  they  would  fain  write  for  fame  merely,  as  others 
actually  raise  crops  of  grain  to  be  distilled  into  brandy. 
Books  are  for  the  most  part  wilfully  and  hastily  written, 
as  parts  of  a  system,  to  supply  a  want  real  or  imagined. 
Books  of  natural  history  aim  commonly  to  be  hasty 
schedules,  or  inventories  of  God's  propertv.  by  some 
clerk.  They  do  not  in  the  least  teach  the  divine  view 
of  nature,  but  the  popular  v^ew,  or  rather  the  popular 
method  of  studying  nature,  and  make  haste  to  con- 
duct the  persevering  pupil  only  into  that  dilemma 
where  the  professors  always  dwell. — ■ 

"  To  Athens  gown'd  he  goes,  and  from  that  school 
Returns  unsped,  a  more  instructed  fool." 

They  teach  the  elements  really  of  ignorance,  not  of 
knowledge,  for  to  speak  deliberately  and  in  view 
of  the  highest  truths,  it  is  not  easy  to  distinguish 
elementary  knowledge.  There  is  a  chasm  between 
knowledge  and  ignorance  which  the  arches  of  science 
can  never  span.  A  book  should  contain  pure  dis- 
coveries, glimpses  of  ferra  fiy-ma^  though  by  ship- 
wrecked mariners,  and  not  the  art  of  navigation  by 
those  who  have  never  been  out  of  sight  of  land." 
Tliey  must  not  yield  wheat  and  potatoes,  but   must 


94        l    IVEEK   ON   THE   COX  CORD   RIVER. 

themselves  be  the  unconstrained  and  natural  harvest 
of  their  author's  lives.  — 

"  What  I  have  learned  is  mine;  I  've  had  my  thought, 
And  me  the  Muses  noble  truths  have  taught," 

We  do  not  learn  much  from  learned  books,  but 
from  true,  sincere,  human  books,  from  frank  and 
honest  biographies.  The  life  of  a  good  man  will 
hardly  improve  us  more  than  the  life  of  a  freebooter, 
for  the  inevitable  laws  appear  as  plainly  in  the  infringe- 
ment as  in  the  observance,  and  our  lives  are  sustained 
by  a  nearly  equal  expense  of  virtue  of  some  kind. 
The  decaying  tree,  while  yet  it  lives,  demands  sun, 
wind,  and  rain  no  less  than  the  green  one.  It  secretes 
sap  and  performs  the  functions  of  health.  If  we 
choose,  we  may  study  the  alburnum  only.  The 
gnarled  stump  has  as  tender  a  bud  as  the   sapling. 

At  least  let  us  have  healthy  books,  a  stout  horse- 
rake  or  a  kitchen  range  which  is  not  cracked.  Let 
not  the  poet  shed  tears  only  for  the  public  weal. 
He  should  be  as  vigorous  as  a  sugar  maple,  with  sap 
enough  to  maintain  his  own  verdure,  beside  what  nms 
into  the  troughs,  and  not  like  a  vine,  which  being  cut 
in  the  spring  bears  no  fmit,  but  bleeds  to  death  in  the 
endeavor  to  heal  its  wounds.  The  poet  is  he  that 
hath  fat  enough,  like  bears  and  marmots,  to  suck  his 
claws  all  winter.  He  hibernates  in  this  world,  and 
feeds  on  his  own  marrow.  It  is  pleasant  to  think  in 
winter,  as  we  walk  over  the  snowy  pastures,  of  those 
happy  dreamers  that  lie  under  the  sod,  of  dormice  and 
all  that  race  of  dormant  creatures,  which  have  such 
a  superfluity  of  life  enveloped  in  thick  folds  of  fur, 
impervious  to  cold.  Alas,  the  poet  too  is,  in  one 
sense,  a  sort  of  dormouse  gone  into  winter  quarters 


SUNDA  V.  95 

of  deep  and  serene  thoughts,  insensible  to  surround- 
ing circumstances ;  his  words  are  the  relation  of  his 
oldest  and  finest  memory,  a  wisdom  drawn  from  the 
remotest  experience.  Other  men  lead  a  starved  ex- 
istence, meanwhile,  like  hawks,  that  would  fain  keep 
on  the  wing,  and  trust  to  pick  up  a  sparrow  now  and 
then. 

There  are  already  essays  and  poems,  the  growth 
of  this  land,  which  are  not  in  vain,  all  which,  how- 
ever, we  could  conveniently  have  stowed  in  the  till 
of  our  chest.  If  the  gods  permitted  their  own  in- 
spiration to  be  breathed  in  vain,  these  might  be  over- 
looked in  the  crowd,  but  the  accents  of  truth  are 
as  sure  to  be  heard  at  last  on  earth  as  in  heaven. 
They  already  seem  ancient,  and  in  some  measure  have 
lost  the  traces  of  their  modern  birth.  Here  are  they 
who 

"  ask  for  that  which  is  our  whole  life's  light, 

For  the  perpetual,  true,  and  clear  insight." 

I  remember  a  few  sentences  which  spring  like  the 
sward  in  its  native  pasture,  where  its  roots  were  never 
disturbed,  and  not  as  if  spread  over  a  sandy  embank- 
ment ;  answering  to  the  poet's  prayer, 

"  Let  us  set  so  just 
A  rate  on  knowledge,  that  the  world  may  trust 
The  poet's  sentence,  and  not  still  aver 
Each  art  is  to  itself  a  flatterer." 

But,  above  all,  in  our  native  port,  did  we  not  frequent 
the  peaceful  games  of  the  Lyceum,  from  which  a  new 
era  will  be  dated  to  New  England,  as  from  the  games 
of  Greece.     For  if  Herodotus  carried  his  Instory  to 


96      A    WEEK   OX   THE   CONCORD   RIVER. 

Olympia  to  read,  after  the  cestiis  and  the  race,  have 
we  not  heard  such  histories  recited  there,  which  since 
our  countrymen  have  read,  as  made  Greece  sometimes 
to  be  forgotten  ?  —  Philosophy,  too,  has  there  her  grove 
and  portico,  not  wholly  unfrequented  in  these  days. 

Lately  the  victor,  whom  all  Pindars  praised,  has 
w^on  another  palm,  contending  with 

"  Olympian  bards  who  sung 
Divine  ideas  below, 
Which  always  find  us  young, 
And  always  keep  us  so.  "  — 

What  earth  or  sea,  mountain  or  stream,  or  Muses" 
spring  or  grove,  is  safe  from  his  all-searching  ardent 
eye,  who  drives  off  Phoebus"  beaten  track,  visits  un- 
wonted zones,  makes  the  gelid  Hyperboreans  glow, 
and  the  old  polar  serpent  writhe,  and  many  a  Nile 
flow  back  and  hide  his  head  I  — 

That  Phaeton  of  our  day. 
Who'd  make  another  milky  way, 
And  burn  the  world  up  with  his  ray; 

By  us  an  undisputed  seer,  — 
Who'd  drive  his  flaming  car  so  near 
Unto  our  shuddering  mortal  sphere, 

Disgracing  all  our  slender  worth, 
And  scorching  up  the  living  earth, 
To  prove  his  heavenly  birth. 

The  silver  spokes,  the  golden  tire, 
Are  glowing  with  unwonted  fire, 
And  ever  nigher  roll  and  nigher; 

The  pins  and  axle  melted  are. 

The  silver  radii  fly  afar. 

Ah,  he  will  spoil  his  Father's  car! 


SUNDA  F.  97 

Who  let  him  have  the  steeds  he  cannot  steer? 
Henceforth  the  sun  will  not  shine  for  a  year. 
And  we  shall  Ethiops  all  appear. 

From  his 

"  lips  of  cunning  fell 

The  thrilling  Delphic  oracle." 

And  yet,  sometimes. 

We  should  not  mind  if  on  our  ear  there  fell 
Some  less  of  cunning,  more  of  oracle. 

It  is  Apollo  shining  in  your  face.  O  rare  Contempo- 
rary, let  us  have  far  off  heats.  Give  us  the  subtler, 
the  heavenlier  though  fleeting  beauty,  which  passes 
through  and  through,  and  dwells  not  in  the  verse ; 
even  pure  water,  which  but  reflects  those  tints  which 
wine  wears  in  its  grain.  Let  epic  trade-winds  blow, 
and  cease  this  waltz  of  inspirations.  Let  us  oftener 
feel  even  the  gentle  south-west  wind  upon  our  cheeks 
blowing  from  the  Indian's  heaven.  What  though 
we  lose  a  thousand  meteors  from  the  sky,  if  skyey 
depths,  if  star-dust  and  undissolvable  nebulae  remain  ? 
What  though  we  lose  a  thousand  wise  responses  of  the 
oracle,  if  we  may  have  instead  some  natural  acres 
of  Ionian  earth? 

Though  we  know  well, 

"  That  't  is  not  in  the  power  of  kings  [or  presidents]  to  raise 
A  spirit  for  verse  that  is  not  born  thereto, 
Nor  are  they  born  in  every  prince's  days ;  " 

yet  spite  of  all  they  sang  in  praise  of  their  "  Eliza's 
reign,"  we  have  evidence  that  poets  may  be  born  and 
sing  in  our  day,  in  the  presidency  of  James  K.  Polk, 

"And  that  the  utmost  powers  of  English  rhyme," 
Were  not  "  within  /ler  peaceful  reign  confined." 


98       A    WEEK   ON   THE   CONCORD  RIVER. 

The  prophecy  of  Samuel  Daniel  is  already  how  much 
more  than  fulfilled  ! 

"And  who  in  time  knows  whither  we  may  vent 
The  treasure  of  our  tongue  ?    To  what  strange  shores 
This  gain  of  our  best  glory  shall  be  sent, 
T  enrich  unknowing  nations  with  our  stores  ? 
What  worlds  in  th'  yet  unformed  Occident, 
May  come  refined  with  the  accents  that  are  ours." 

Enough  has  been  said  in  these  days  of  the  charm 
of  fluent  writing.  We  hear  it  complained  of  some 
works  of  genius,  that  they  have  fine  thoughts,  but  are 
irregular  and  have  no  flow.  But  even  the  mountain 
peaks  in  the  horizon  are,  to  the  eye  of  science,  parts 
of  one  range.  We  should  consider  that  the  flow  of 
thought  is  more  like  a  tidal  wave  than  a  prone  river, 
and  is  the  result  of  a  celestial  influence,  not  of  any 
declivity  in  its  channel.  The  river  flows  because  it 
runs  down  hill,  and  descends  the  faster  as  it  flows 
more  rapidly.  The  reader  who  expects  to  float  down 
stream  for  the  whole  voyage,  may  well  complain  of 
nauseating  swells  and  choppings  of  the  sea  when  his 
frail  shore-craft  gets  amidst  the  billows  of  the  ocean 
stream,  which  flows  as  much  to  sun  and  moon  as 
lesser  streams  to  it.  But  if  we  would  appreciate  the 
flow  that  is  in  these  books,  we  must  expect  to  feel  it 
rise  from  the  page  like  an  exhalation,  and  wash  away 
our  critical  brains  like  burr  millstones,  flowing  to 
higher  levels  above  and  behind  ourselves.  There  is 
many  a  book  which  ripples  on  like  a  freshet,  and  flows 
as  glibly  as  a  mill  stream  sucking  under  a  causeway ; 
and  when  their  authors  are  in  the  full  tide  of  their 
discourse,  Pythagoras,  and  Plato,  and  Jamblichus, 
halt  beside  them.  Their  long  stringy  slimy  sentences 
are  of  that  consistency  that  they  naturally  flow  and 


SUNDA  Y.  99 

run  together.  They  read  as  if  written  for  military 
men,  for  men  of  business,  there  is  such  a  despatch  in 
them.  Compared  with  these,  the  grave  thinkers  and 
philosophers  seem  not  to  have  got  their  swaddling 
clothes  off;  they  are  slower  than  a  Roman  army  in 
its  march,  the  rear  camping  to-night  where  the  van 
camped  last  night.  The  wise  Jamblichus  eddies  and 
gleams  like  a  watery  slough. 

"  How  many  thousand,  never  heard  the  name 
Of  Sidney,  or  of  Spenser,  or  their  books? 
And  yet  brave  fellows,  and  presume  of  fame. 

And  seem  to  bear  down  all  the  world  with  looks." 

The  ready  writer  seizes  the  pen,  and  shouts.  Forward! 
Alamo  and  Fanning!  and  after  rolls  the  tide  of  war. 
The  very  walls  and  fences  seem  to  travel.  But  the 
most  rapid  trot  is  no  flow  after  all,  —  and  thither  you 
and  I,  at  least,  reader,  will  not  follow. 

A  perfectly  healthy  sentence,  it  is  true,  is  extremely 
rare.  For  the  most  part  we  miss  the  hue  and  fra- 
grance of  the  thought ;  as  if  we  could  be  satisfied  with 
the  dews  of  the  morning  or  evening  without  their 
colors,  or  the  heavens  without  their  azure.  The  most 
attractive  sentences  are,  perhaps,  not  the  wisest,  but 
the  surest  and  roundest.  They  are  spoken  firmly  and 
conclusively,  as  if  the  speaker  had  a  right  to  know 
what  he  says,  and  if  not  wise,  they  have  at  least  been 
well  learned.  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  might  well  be 
studied  if  only  for  the  excellence  of  his  style,  for  he 
is  remarkable  in  the  midst  of  so  many  masters. 
There  is  a  natural  emphasis  in  his  style,  like  a  man's 
tread,  and  a  breathing  space  between  the  sentences, 
which  the  best  of  modern  writing  does  not  furnish. 
His  chapters  are  like  English  parks,  or  say  rather  like 


I  CO      --/    JVEEK   av   THE   CONCORD  RIVER. 

a  western  forest,  where  the  larger  growth  keeps 
down  the  underwood,  and  one  may  ride  on  horseback 
through  the  openings.  All  the  distinguished  writers 
of  that  period,  possess  a  greater  vigor  and  natural- 
ness than  the  more  modern,  —  for  it  is  allowed  to 
slander  our  own  time,  —  and  when  we  read  a  quo- 
tation from  one  of  them  in  the  midst  of  a  modern 
author,  we  seem  to  have  come  suddenly  upon  a 
greener  ground,  a  greater  depth  and  strength  of  soil. 
It  is  as  if  a  green  bough  were  laid  across  the  page, 
and  we  are  refreshed  as  by  the  sight  of  fresh  grass  in 
mid-winter  or  early  spring.  You  have  constantly  the 
warrant  of  life  and  experience  in  what  you  read. 
The  little  that  is  said  is  eked  out  by  implication  of 
the  much  that  was  done.  The  sentences  are  verdur- 
ous and  blooming  as  evergreen  and  flowers,  because 
they  are  rooted  in  fact  and  experience,  but  our  false 
and  florid  sentences  have  only  the  tints  of  flowers 
without  their  sap  or  roots.  All  men  are  really  most 
attracted  by  the  beauty  of  plain  speech,  and  they  even 
write  in  a  florid  style  in  imitation  of  this.  They  pre- 
fer to  be  misunderstood  rather  than  to  come  short  of 
its  exuberance.  Hussein  Effendi  praised  the  episto- 
lary style  of  Ibrahim  Pasha  to  the  French  traveller 
Botta,  because  of  "the  difficulty  of  understanding  it: 
there  was,''  he  said,  "  but  one  person  at  Jidda,  who 
was  capable  of  understanding  and  explaining  the 
Pasha's  correspondence.''  A  man's  whole  life  is 
taxed  for  the  least  thing  well  done.  It  is  its  net  result. 
Every  sentence  is  the  result  of  a  long  probation. 
Where  shall  we  look  for  standard  English,  but  to  the 
words  of  a  standard  man  ?  The  word  which  is  best 
said  came  nearest  to  not  being  spoken  at  all,  for  it  is 
cousin  to  a  deed  which  the  speaker  could  have  better 


SUN  DA  V.  lOI 

done.  Nay,  almost  it  must  have  taken  the  place  of  a 
deed  by  some  urgent  necessity,  even  by  some  misfor- 
tune, so  that  the  truest  writer  will  be  some  captive 
knight,  after  all.  And  perhaps  the  fates  had  such  a 
design,  when,  having  stored  Raleigh  so  richly  with  the 
substance  of  life  and  experience,  they  made  him  a  fast 
prisoner,  and  compelled  him  to  make  his  words  his 
deeds,  and  transfer  to  his  expression  the  emphasis 
and  sincerity  of  his  action. 

Men  have  a  respect  for  scholarship  and  learning 
greatly  out  of  proportion  to  the  use  they  commonly 
serve.  We  are  amused  to  read  how  Ben  Jonson  en- 
gaged, that  the  dull  masks  with  which  the  royal  fam- 
ily and  nobility  were  to  be  entertained,  should  be 
'•  grounded  upon  antiquity  and  solid  learning."  Can 
there  be  any  greater  reproach  than  an  idle  learning? 
Learn  to  split  wood,  at  least.  The  necessity  of  labor 
and  conversation  with  many  men  and  things,  to  the 
scholar  is  rarely  well  remembered  ;  steady  labor  with 
the  hands,  which  engrosses  the  attention  also,  is  un- 
questionably the  best  method  of  removing  palaver 
and  sentimentality  out  of  one's  style,  both  of  speak- 
ing and  writing.  If  he  has  worked  hard  from  morn- 
ing till  night,  though  he  may  have  grieved  that  he 
could  not  be  watching  the  train  of  his  thoughts  during 
that  time,  yet  the  few  hasty  lines  which  at  evening 
record  his  day's  experience  will  be  more  musical  and 
tnie  than  his  freest  but  idle  fancy  could  have  furnished. 
Surely  the  writer  is  to  address  a  world  of  laborers, 
and  such  therefore  must  be  his  own  discipline.  He 
will  not  idly  dance  at  his  work  who  has  wood  to  cut 
and  cord  before  night-fall  in  the  short  days  of  winter ; 
but  every  stroke  will  be  husbanded,  and  ring  soberly 
through   the  wood  ;    and  so  will  the  strokes  of  that 


102      J    WEEK   ON   THE   CONCORD   RIVER. 

scholar's  pen,  which  at  evening  record  the  story  of 
the  day,  ring  soberly,  yet  cheerily,  on  the  ear  of  the 
reader,  long  after  the  echoes  of  his  axe  have  died 
away.  The  scholar  may  be  sure  that  he  writes  the 
tougher  truth  for  the  calluses  on  his  palms.  They 
give  firmness  to  the  sentence.  Indeed,  the  mind 
never  makes  a  great  and  successful  effort  without  a 
corresponding  energy  of  the  body.  We  are  often 
struck  by  the  force  and  precision  of  style  to  which 
hard-working  men,  unpractised  in  writing,  easily  at- 
tain, when  required  to  make  the  effort.  As  if  plain- 
ness, and  vigor,  and  sincerity,  the  ornaments  of  style, 
were  better  learned  on  the  farm  and  in  the  workshop 
than  in  the  schools.  The  sentences  written  by  such 
rude  hands  are  nervous  and  tough,  like  hardened 
thongs,  the  sinews  of  the  deer,  or  the  roots  of  the 
pine.  As  for  the  graces  of  expression,  a  great  thought 
is  never  found  in  a  mean  dress  :  but  though  it  proceed 
from  the  Hps  of  the  Woloffs,  the  nine  Muses  and  the 
three  Graces  will  have  conspired  to  clothe  it  in  fit 
phrase.  Its  education  has  alwa3-s  been  liberal,  and 
its  implied  wit  can  endow  a  college.  The  scholar 
might  frequently  emulate  the  propriety  and  emphasis 
of  the  farmer's  call  to  his  team,  and  confess  that 
if  that  were  written  it  would  surpass  his  labored 
sentences.  Whose  are  the  truly  labored  sentences? 
From  the  weak  and  flimsy  periods  of  the  politician 
and  literary  man,  we  are  glad  to  turn  even  to  the  de- 
scription of  work,  the  simple  record  of  the  month's 
labor  in  the  farmer's  almanac,  to  restore  our  tone  and 
spirits.  A  sentence  should  read  as  if  its  author,  had 
he  held  a  plow  instead  of  a  pen,  could  have  drawn  a 
furrow  deep  and  straight  to  the  end.  The  scholar 
requires  hard  and  serious  labor  to  give  an  impetus  tc 


SUNDA  Y.  103 

his  thought.  He  will  learn  to  grasp  the  pen  firmly 
so,  and  wield  it  gracefully  and  effectively,  as  an  axe 
or  a  sword.  When  we  consider  the  weak  and  nerve- 
less periods  of  some  literary  men,  who  perchance  in 
feet  and  inches  come  up  to  the  standard  of  their  race, 
and  are  not  deficient  in  girth  also,  we  are  amazed  at 
the  immense  sacrifice  of  thews  and  sinews.  What! 
these  proportions,  —  these  bones, — and  this  their 
work!  Hands  which  could  have  felled  an  ox  have 
hewed  this  fragile  matter  which  would  not  have  tasked 
a  lady's  fingers!  Can  this  be  a  stalwart  man's  work, 
who  has  a  marrow  in  his  back  and  a  tendon  Achilles 
in  his  heel?  They  who  set  up  the  blocks  of  Stone- 
henge  did  somewhat,  if  they  only  laid  out  their  strength 
for  once,  and  stretched  themselves. 

Yet,  after  all,  the  truly  efficient  laborer  will  not 
crowd  his  day  with  work,  but  will  saunter  to  his  task 
surrounded  by  a  wide  halo  of  ease  and  leisure,  and 
then  do  but  what  he  loves  best.  He  is  anxious  only 
about  the  fruitful  kernels  of  time.  Though  the  hen 
should  sit  all  day,  she  could  lay  only  one  ^%g^  and, 
besides,  would  not  have  picked  up  materials  for  an- 
other. Let  a  man  take  time  enough  for  the  most 
trivial  deed,  though  it  be  but  the  paring  of  his  nails. 
The  buds  swell  imperceptibly,  without  hurry  or  con- 
fusion, as  if  the  short  spring  days  were  an  eternity.  — 

Then  spend  an  age  in  whetting  thy  desire, 
Thou  need'st  not  hasten  if  thou  dost  standfast. 

Some  hours  seem  not  to  be  occasion  for  any  deed, 
but  for  resolves  to  draw  breath  in.  We  do  not 
directly  go  about  the  execution  of  the  purpose  that 
thrills  us,  but  shut  our  doors  behind  us,  and  ramble 
with  prepared  mind,  as  if  the  half  were  already  done. 


I04      -4    WEEK   Oy   THE   CONCORD   RIVER. 

Our  resolution  is  taking  root  or  hold  on  the  earth 
then,  as  seeds  first  send  a  shoot  downward  which  is 
fed  by  their  own  albumen,  ere  they  send  one  upward 
to  the  light. 

There  is  a  sort  of  homely  truth  and  naturalness  in 
some  books  which  is  very  rare  to  find,  and  yet  looks 
cheap  enough.  There  may  be  nothing  lofty  in  the 
sentiment,  or  fine  in  the  expression,  but  it  is  careless 
country  talk.  Homeliness  is  almost  as  great  a  merit 
in  a  book  as  in  a  house,  if  the  reader  would  abide 
there.  It  is  next  to  beauty,  and  a  very  high  art. 
Some  have  this  merit  only.  The  scholar  is  not  apt 
to  make  his  most  familiar  experience  come  gracefully 
to  the  aid  of  his  expression.  Very  few  men  can 
speak  of  Nature,  for  instance,  with  any  truth.  They 
overstep  her  modesty,  somehow  or  other,  and  confer 
no  favor.  They  do  not  speak  a  good  word  for  her. 
Most  cry  better  than  they  speak,  and  you  can  get  more 
nature  out  of  them  by  pinching  than  by  address- 
ing them.  The  surliness  with  which  the  wood- 
chopper  speaks  of  his  woods,  handling  them  as  indif- 
ferently as  his  axe,  is  better  than  the  mealy-mouthed 
enthusiasm  of  the  lover  of  nature.  Better  that  the 
primrose  by  the  river's  brim  be  a  yellow  primrose,  and 
nothing  more,  than  that  it  be  something  less.  Aubrey 
relates  of  Thomas  Fuller  that  his  was  "  a  very  work- 
ing head,  insomuch  that,  walking  and  meditating 
before  dinner,  he  would  eat  up  a  penny  loaf,  not 
knowing  that  he  did  it.  His  natural  memory  was 
very  great,  to  which  he  added  the  art  of  memory. 
He  would  repeat  to  you  forwards  and  backwards  all 
the  signs  from  Ludgate  to  Charing-cross."  He  says 
of  Mr.  John  Hales,  that  ••  He  loved  Canarie,"   and 


SUNDAY.  105 

was  buried  "  under  an  altar  monument  of  black  mar- 
ble   with  a  too  long  epitaph  ;  '■•  of  Edmund 

Halley,  that  he,  ''  at  sixteen  could  make  a  dial,  and 
then,  he  said,  he  thought  himself  a  brave  fellow ;  "'  of 
William  Holder,  who  wrote  a  book  upon  his  curing 
one  Popham  who  was  deaf  and  dumb,  "  he  was  be- 
holding to  no  author;  did  only  consult  with  nature." 
For  the  most  part,  an  author  consults  only  with  all 
who  have  written  before  him  upon  a  subject,  and  his 
book  is  but  the  advice  of  so  many.  But  a  good  book 
will  never  have  been  forestalled,  but  the  topic  itself 
will  in  one  sense  be  new,  and  its  author,  by  consult- 
ing with  nature,  will  consult  not  only  with  those  who 
have  gone  before,  but  with  those  who  may  come  after. 
There  is  always  room  and  occasion  enough  for  a  true 
book  on  any  subject ;  as  there  is  room  for  more  light 
the  brightest  day  and  more  rays  will  not  interfere 
with  the  first. 

We  thus  worked  our  way  up  this  river,  gradually 
adjusting  our  thoughts  to  novelties,  beholding  from 
its  placid  bosom  a  new  nature  and  new  works  of  men, 
and  as  it  were  with  increasing  confidence,  finding 
nature  still  habitable,  genial,  and  propitious  to  us ; 
not  following  any  beaten  path,  but  the  windings  of  the 
river,  as  ever  the  nearest  way  for  us.  Fortunately  we 
had  no  business  in  this  country.  The  Concord  had 
rarely  been  a  river  or  rivusj  but  hsxtly  flinnas,  or  be- 
Xw^^rvfliivius  and  lactts.  This  Merrimack  was  neither 
rivus  nor  flicvitis  nor  lacus,  but  rather  amnis  here,  a 
gently  swelling  and  stately  rolling  flood  approaching 
the  sea.  We  could  even  sympathize  with  its  buoy- 
ant tide,  going  to  seek  its  fortune  in  the  ocean,  and 
anticipating  the  time  when   ''being  received  within 


I06      .4    WEEK    ON    rilE    CONCORD  RIVER. 

the  plain  of  its  freer  water,"  it  should  •*  beat  the  shores 

for  banks. ''  — 

"  campoque  recepta 
Liberioris  aquae,  pro  ripis  litora  pulsant." 

At  length  we  doubled  a  low  shmbby  islet,  called  Rab- 
bit Island,  subjected  alternately  to  th6  sun  and  to  the 
waves,  as  desolate  as  if  it  lay  some  leagues  within  the 
icy  sea,  and  found  ourselves  in  a  narrower  part  of 
the  river,  near  the  sheds  and  yards  for  picking  the 
stone  known  as  the  Chelmsford  granite,  which  is 
quarried  in  Chelmsford  and  the  neighboring  towns. 
We  passed  Wicasuck  Island,  which  contains  seventy 
acres  or  more,  on  our  right  between  Chelmsford  and 
Tyngsboro'.  This  was  a  favorite  residence  of  the 
Indians.  According  to  the  History  of  Dunstable, 
"About  1663,  the  eldest  son  of  Passaconaway  [Chief 
of  the  Penacooks]  was  thrown  into  jail  for  a  debt  of 
^45,  due  to  John  Tinker,  by  one  of  his  tribe,  and 
which  he  had  promised  verbally  should  be  paid.  To 
relieve  him  from  his  imprisonment,  his  brother  Wan- 
nalancet  and  others,  who  owned  Wicasuck  Island, 
sold  it  and  paid  the  debt."  It  was,  however,  restored 
to  the  Indians  by  the  General  Court  in  1665.  After 
the  departure  of  the  Indians  in  1683,  it  was  granted 
to  Jonathan  Tyng  in  payment  for  his  services  to  the 
::olony,  in  maintaining  a  garrison  at  his  house.  Tyng's 
house  stood  not  far  from  Wicasuck  Falls.  Gookin, 
who,  in  his  Epistle  Dedicatory  to  Robert  Boyle, 
apologizes  for  presenting  his  "matter  clothed  in  a 
wilderness  dress,"  says  that  on  the  breaking  out  of 
Philip's  war  in  1675,  there  were  taken  up  by  the 
Christian  Indians  and  the  English  in  Marlborough, 
and  sent  to  Cambridge,  seven  •'  Indians  belonging  to 
Narragansett,  Long  Island,  and  Pequod.  who  had  all 


SUNDAY.  107 

been  at  work  about  seven  weeks  with  one  Mr.  Jona- 
than Tyng,  of  Dunstable,  upon  Merrimack  River ;  and 
hearing  of  the  war,  they  reckoned  with  their  master, 
and  getting  their  wages,  conveyed  themselves  away 
without  his  privity,  and  being  afraid,  marched  secretly 
through  the  woods,  designing  to  go  to  their  own 
country."  However,  they  were  released  soon  after. 
Such  were  the  hired  men  in  those  days.  Tyng  was 
the  first  permanent  settler  of  Dunstable,  which  then 
embraced  what  is  now  Tyngsboro'  and  many  other 
towns.  In  the  winter  of  1675,  in  Philip's  war,  every 
other  settler  left  the  town,  but  "  he,"  says  the  historian 
of  Dunstable,  "fortified  his  house;  and  although 
'  obliged  to  send  to  Boston  for  his  food,'  sat  himself 
down  in  the  midst  of  his  savage  enemies,  alone,  in  the 
wilderness,  to  defend  his  home.  Deeming  his  position 
an  important  one  for  the  defence  of  the  frontiers,  in 
Feb.  1676,  he  petitioned  the  Colony  for  aid,"  humbly 
showing,  as  his  petition  runs,  that  as  he  lived  ''in  the 
uppermost  house  on  Merrimac  River,  lying  open  to  ye 
enemy,  yet  being  so  seated  that  it  is,  as  it  were,  a 
watchhouse  to  the  neighboring  towns,"  he  could 
render  important  service  to  his  country  if  only  he  had 
some  assistance,  '•  there  being,"  he  said,  "  never  an 
inhabitant  left  in  the  town  but  myself.''  Wherefore  he 
requests  that  their  "  Honors  would  be  pleased  to  order 
him  three  or  four  iiie7i  to  help  garrison  his  said 
house,"  which  they  did.  But  methinks  that  such  a 
garrison  would  be  weakened  by  the  addition  of  a 
man.  — 

"  Make  bandog  thy  scout  watch  to  bark  at  a  thief, 
Make  courage  for  life,  to  be  capitain  chief; 
Make  trap-door  thy  bulwark,  make  bell  to  begin. 
Make  gunstone  and  arrow  shew  who  is  within." 


I08      .-/    WEEK'   Oy   THE   CONCORD   RIVER. 

Thus  he  earned  the  title  of  first  permanent  settler.  In 
1694  a  law  was  passed  *•  that  every  settler  who  deserted 
a  town  for  fear  of  the  Indians,  should  forfeit  all  his 
rights  therein."'  But  now,  at  any  rate,  as  I  have  fre- 
quently observed,  a  man  may  desert  the  fertile  frontier 
territories  of  truth  and  justice,  which  are  the  State's 
best  lands,  for  fear  of  far  more  insignificant  foes,  with- 
out forfeiting  any  of  his  civil  rights  therein.  Nay, 
townships  are  granted  to  deserters,  and  the  General 
Court,  as  I  am  sometimes  inclined  to  regard  it,  is  but 
a  deserters"  camp  itself. 

As  w^e  rowed  along  near  the  shore  of  Wicasuck 
Island,  which  was  then  covered  with  wood,  in  order  to 
avoid  the  current,  two  men,  who  looked  as  if  they  had 
just  run  out  of  Lowell,  where  they  had  been  waylaid 
by  the  Sabbath,  meaning  to  go  to  Nashua,  and  who 
now  found  themselves  in  the  strange,  natural,  unculti- 
vated and  unsettled  part  of  the  globe  which  intervenes, 
full  of  walls  and  barriers,  a  rough  and  uncivil  place  to 
them,  seeing  our  boat  moving  so  smoothly  up  the 
stream,  called  out  from  the  high  bank  above  our 
heads  to  know  if  we  would  take  them  as  passengers, 
as  if  this  were  the  street  they  had  missed ;  that  they 
might  sit  and  chat  and  drive  away  the  time,  and  so  at 
last  find  themselves  in  Nashua.  This  smooth  way 
they  much  preferred.  Bat  our  boat  was  crowded  with 
necessary  furniture,  and  sunk  low  in  the  water, 
and  moreover  required  to  be  worked,  for  even 
//  did  not  progress  against  the  stream  without 
effort ;  so  we  were  obliged  to  deny  them  passage. 
As  we  glided  away  with  even  sweeps,  while  the  fates 
scattered  oil  in  our  course,  the  sun  now  sinking 
behind  the  alders  on  the  distant  shore,  we  could  still 
see  them  far  off  over  the  water,   mnning  along  the 


SUNDAY.  109 

shore  and  climbing  over  the  rocks  and  fallen  trees  like 
insects,  —  for  they  did  not  know  any  better  than  we 
that  they  were  on  an  island,  —  the  unsympathizing 
river  ever  flowing  in  an  opposite  direction  ;  until,  hav- 
ing reached  the  entrance  of  the  Island  Brook,  which 
they  had  probably  crossed  upon  the  locks  below,  they 
found  a  more  effectual  barrier  to  their  progress. 
They  seemed  to  be  learning  much  in  a  little  time. 
They  ran  about  like  ants  on  a  burning  brand,  and 
once  more  they  tried  the  river  here,  and  once  more 
there,  to  see  if  water  still  indeed  was  not  to  be  walked 
on,  as  if  a  new  thought  inspired  them,  and  by  some 
peculiar  disposition  of  the  limbs  they  could  accomplish 
it.  At  length  sober  common  sense  seemed  to  have 
resumed  its  sway,  and  they  concluded  that  what  they 
had  so  long  heard  must  be  true,  and  resolved  to  ford 
the  shallower  stream.  When  nearly  a  mile  distant 
we  could  see  them  stripping  off  their  clothes  and  pre- 
paring for  this  experiment ;  yet  it  seemed  likely  that 
a  new  dilemma  would  arise,  they  were  so  thoughtlessly 
throwing  away  their  clothes  on  the  wrong  side  of  the 
stream,  as  in  the  case  of  the  countryman  with  his 
corn,  his  fox,  and  his  goose,  which  had  to  be  trans- 
ported one  at  a  time.  Whether  they  got  safely 
through,  or  went  round  by  the  locks  we  never  learned. 
We  could  not  help  being  struck  by  the  seeming, 
though  innocent  indifference  of  Nature  to  these  men's 
necessities,  while  elsewhere  she  was  equally  serving 
others.  Like  a  true  benefactress,  the  secret  of  her 
service  is  unchangeableness.  Thus  is  the  busiest 
merchant,  though  within  sight  of  his  Lowell,  put  to 
pilgrim's  shifts  and  soon  comes  to  staff  and  scrip  and 
scallop  shell. 

We,  too,  who  held  the  middle  of  the  stream,  came 


no      A    WEEK   ON   THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

near  experiencing  a  pilgrim's  fate,  being  tempted  to 
pursue  what  seemed  a  sturgeon  or  larger  fish,  for  we 
remembered  that  this  was  the  Sturgeon  river,  its  dark 
and  monstrous  back  alternately  rising  and  sinking  in 
mid-stream.  We  kept  falling  behind,  but  the  fish  kept 
his  back  well  out,  and  did  not  dive,  and  seemed  to 
prefer  to  swim  against  the  stream,  so,  at  any  rate,  he 
would  not  escape  us  by  going  out  to  sea.  At  length, 
having  got  as  near  as  was  convenient,  and  looking  out 
not  to  get  a  blow  from  his  tail,  now  the  bow-gunner 
delivered  his  charge,  while  the  stern-man  held  his 
ground.  But  the  halibut-skinned  monster,  in  one  of 
these  swift-gliding  pregnant  moments,  without  ever 
ceasing  his  bobbing  up  and  down,  saw  fit,  without  a 
chuckle  or  other  prelude,  to  proclaim  himself  a  huge 
imprisoned  spar,  placed  there  as  a  buoy,  to  warn  sailors 
of  sunken  rocks.  So,  each  casting  some  blame  upon 
the  other,  we  withdrew  quickly  to  safer  waters. 

The  Scene-shifter  saw  fit  here  to  close  the  drama 
of  this  day,  without  regard  to  any  unities  which  we 
mortals  prize.  Whether  it  might  have  proved  tragedy, 
or  comedy,  or  tragi-comedy  or  pastoral,  we  cannot  tell. 
This  Sunday  ended  by  the  going  down  of  the  sun. 
leaving  us  still  on  the  waves.  But  they  who  are  on  the 
water  enjoy  a  longer  and  brighter  twilight  than  they 
who  are  on  the  land,  for  here  the  water,  as  well  as  the 
atmosphere,  absorbs  and  reflects  the  light,  and  some 
of  the  day  seems  to  have  sunk  down  into  the  waves. 
The  light  gradually  forsook  the  deep  water,  as  well 
as  the  deeper  air.  and  the  gloaming  came  to  the  fishes 
as  well  as  to  us,  and  more  dim  and  gloomy  to  them, 
whose  day  is  a  perpetual  twilight,  though  sufficiently 
bright  for  their  weak  and  watery  eyes.  \''espers  had 
already  rung  in  many  a  dim  and  watery  chapel  down 


SUNDA  Y.  Ill 

below,  where  the  shadows  of  the  weeds  were  extended 
in  length  over  the  sandy  floor.  The  vespertinal  pout 
had  already  begun  to  flit  on  leathern  fin,  and  the  finny 
gossips  withdrew  from  the  fluvial  street  to  creeks  and 
coves,  and  other  private  haunts,  excepting  a  few  of 
stronger  fin,  which  anchored  in  the  stream,  stemming 
the  tide  even  in  their  dreams.  Meanwhile,  like  a 
dark  evening  cloud,  we  were  wafted  over  the  cope  of 
their  sky,  deepening  the  shadows  on  their  deluged 
fields. 

Having  reached  a  retired  part  of  the  river  where  it 
spread  out  to  sixty  rods  in  width,  we  pitched  our  tent 
on  the  east  side,  in  Tyngsboro\  just  above  some 
patches  of  the  beach  plum,  which  was  now  nearly 
ripe,  where  the  sloping  bank  was  a  sufficient  pillow, 
and  with  the  bustle  of  sailors  making  the  land,  we 
transferred  such  stores  as  were  required  from  boat 
to  tent,  and  hung  a  lantern  to  the  tent-pole,  and  so 
our  house  was  ready.  With  a  buffalo  spread  on  the 
grass,  and  a  blanket  for  our  covering,  our  bed  was 
soon  made.  A  fire  crackled  merrily  before  the 
entrance,  so  near  that  we  could  tend  it  without  step- 
ping abroad,  and  when  we  had  supped,  we  put  out  the 
blaze,  and  closed  the  door,  and  with  the  semblance  of 
domestic  comfort,  sat  up  to  read  the  gazetteer,  to  learn 
our  latitude  and  longitude,  and  write  the  journal  of  the 
voyage,  or  listened  to  the  wind  and  the  rippling  of  the 
river  till  sleep  overtook  us.  There  we  lay  under  an 
oak  on  the  bank  of  the  stream,  near  to  some  farmer's 
cornfield,  getting  sleep,  and  forgetting  where  we  were  ; 
a  great  blessing,  that  we  are  obliged  to  forget  our 
enterprises  every  twelve  hours.  Minks,  muskrats, 
meadow-mice,  woodchucks.  squirrels,  skunks,  rabbits, 
foxes  and  weasels,  all  inhabit  near,  but  keep  very  close 


112      A    WEEK   aV   THE   COXCORD   RIVER. 

while  you  are  there.  The  river  sucking  and  eddying 
away  all  night  down  toward  the  marts  and  the  sea- 
board, a  great  work  and  freshet,  and  no  small  enter- 
prise to  reflect  on.  Instead  of  the  Scythian  vastness 
of  the  Billerica  night,  and  its  wild  musical  sounds,  we 
were  kept  awake  by  the  boisterous  sport  of  some  Irish 
Is  borers  on  the  railroad,  wafted  to  us  over  the  water, 
still  unwearied  and  unresting  on  this  seventh  day,  who 
would  not  have  done  with  whirling  up  and  down  the 
track  with  ever  increasing  velocity  and  still  reviving 
shouts,  till  late  in  the  night. 

One  sailor  was  visited  in  his  dreams  this  night  by 
the  Evil  Destinies,  and  all  those  powers  that  are  hostile 
to  human  life,  which  constrain  and  oppress  the  minds 
of  men,  and  make  their  path  seem  difficult  and  narrow, 
and  beset  with  dangers,  so  that  the  most  innocent  and 
worthy  enterprises  appear  insolent  and  a  tempting  of 
fate,  and  the  gods  go  not  with  us.  But  the  other 
happily  passed  serene  and  even  ambrosial  or  immortal 
night,  and  his  sleep  was  dreamless,  or  only  the  atmos- 
phere of  pleasant  dreams  remained,  a  happy  natural 
sleep  until  the  morning,  and  his  cheerful  spirit  soothed 
and  reassured  his  brother,  for  whenever  they  meet,  the 
Good  Genius  is  sure  to  prevail. 


MONDAY. 

"  I  thynke  for  to  touche  also 
The  worlde  which e  neweth  everie  dale, 
So  as  I  can,  so  as  I  male."  Gower. 

"  Gazed  on  the  Heavens  for  what  he  missed  on  Earth." 

Britannia's  Pastorals. 

When  the  first  light  dawned  on  the  earth,  and  the 
Ijirds  awoke,  and  the  brave  liver  was  heard  rippling 
confidently  seaward,  and  the  nimble  early  rising  wdnd 
rustled  the  oak  leaves  about  our  tent,  all  men,  having 
reinforced  their  bodies  and  their  souls  with  sleep,  and 
cast  aside  doubt  and  fear,  were  invited  to  unattempted 
adventures. 

One  of  us  took  the  boat  over  to  the  opposite  shore, 
which  was  flat  and  accessible,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  dis- 
tant, to  empty  it  of  water  and  wash  out  the  clay,  while 
the  other  kindled  a  fire  and  got  breakfast  ready.  At 
an  early  hour  we  were  again  on  our  way,  rowing 
through  the  fog  as  before,  the  river  already  awake, 
and  a  million  crisped  waves  come  forth  to  meet  the 
sun  when  he  should  show  himself.  The  countrymen, 
recruited  by  their  day  of  rest,  were  already  stirring, 
and  had  begun  to  cross  the  ferry  on  the  business  of 
the  week.  This  ferry  was  as  busy  as  a  beaver  dam, 
and  all  the  world  seemed  anxious  to  get  across  the 
Merrimack  River  at  this  particular  point,  waiting  to 
get  set  over,  —  children  with  their  two  cents  done 
up  in  paper,  jail-birds  broke  loose  and  constable  with 
"3 


114      A    WEEK   ON   THE   CONCORD   RIVER. 

warrant,  travellers  from  distant  lands  to  distant  lands, 
men  and' women  to  whom  the  Merrimack  River  was  a 
bar.  There  stands  a  gig  in  the  gray  morning,  in  the 
mist,  the  impatient  traveller  pacing  the  wet  shore  with 
whip  in  hand,  and  shouting  through  the  fog  after  the 
regardless  Charon  and  his  retreating  ark,  as  if  he  might 
throw  that  passenger  overboard  and  return  forthwith 
for  himself;  he  will  compensate  him.  He  is  to  break 
his  fast  at  some  unseen  place  on  the  opposite  side.  I; 
may  be  Ledyard  or  the  Wandering  Jew.  Whenco 
pray  did  he  come  out  of  the  foggy  night?  and  whithei 
through  the  sunny  day  will  he  go?  We  observe  only 
his  transit :  important  to  us,  forgotten  by  him,  transit- 
ing all  day.  There  are  two  of  them.  May  be,  they  are 
Virgil  and  Dante.  But  when  they  crossed  the  Styx, 
none  were  seen  bound  up  or  down  the  stream,  that  I 
remember.  It  is  only  a  transjectus.  a  transitory  voy- 
age, like  life  itself,  none  but  the  long-lived  gods  bound 
up  or  down  the  stream.  Many  of  these  Monday  men 
are  ministers,  no  doubt,  reseeking  their  parishes  with 
hired  horses,  with  sermons  in  their  valises  all  read  and 
gutted,  the  day  after  never  with  them.  They  cross 
each  other's  routes  all  the  country  over  like  woof  and 
warp,  making  a  garment  of  loose  texture ;  vacation 
now  for  six  days.  They  stop  to  pick  nuts  and 
berries,  and  gather  apples  by  the  wayside  at  their 
leisure.  Good  religious  men,  with  the  love  of  men 
in  their  hearts,  and  the  means  to  pay  their  toll  in 
their  pockets.  We  got  over  this  ferry  chain  without 
scraping,  rowing  athwart  the  tide  of  travel,  —  no  toll 
from  us  that  day. 

The  fog  dispersed  and  we  rowed  leisurely  along 
through  Tyngsboro',  with  a  clear  sky  and  a  mild 
atmosphere,  leaving  the  habitations  of  men  behind 


MONO  A  V.  115 

and  penetrating  yet  furtlier  into  the  territory  of 
ancient  Dunstable.  It  was  from  Dunstable,  then  a 
frontier  town,  that  the  famous  Capt.  Lovewell,  with 
his  company,  marched  in  quest  of  the  Indians  on  the 
i8th  of  April,  1725.  He  was  the  son  of  "an  ensign 
in  the  army  of  Oliver  Cromwell,  who  came  to  this 
country,  and  settled  at  Dunstable,  \vhere  he  died  at 
the  great  age  of  one  hundred  and  twenty  years." 
In  the  words  of  the  old  nursery  tale,  sung  about  a 
hundred  years  ago, — 

"  He  and  bis  valiant  soldiers  did  range  the  woods  full  wide, 
And  hardships  they  endured  to  quell  the  Indian's  pride." 

In  the  shaggy  pine  forest  of  Pequawket  they  met  the 
''rebel  Indians,"  and  prevailed,  after  a  bloody  fight, 
and  a  remnant  returned  home  to  enjoy  the  fame  of 
their  victory.  A  township  called  LovewelPs  Town, 
but  now,  for  some  reason,  or  perhaps  without  reason, 
Pembroke,  was  granted  them  by  the  State. 

"  Of  all  our  valiant  English,  there  were  but  thirty-four, 
And  of  the  rebel  Indians,  there  were  about  four  score ; 
And  sixteen  of  our  English  did  safely  home  return, 
The  rest  were  killed  and  wounded,  for  which  we  all  must 
mourn. 

"  Our  worthy  Capt.  Lovewell  among  them  there  did  die. 
They  killed  Lieut,  Robbins,  and  wounded  good  young  Frye, 
Who  was  our  English  Chaplin;  he  many  Indians  slew, 
And  some  of  them  he  scalped  while  bullets  round  him  flew." 

Our  brave  forefathers  have  exterminated  all  the 
Indians,  and  their  degenerate  children  no  longer 
dwell  in  garrisoned  houses,  nor  hear  any  war-whoop 
in  their  path.  It  would  be  well,  perchance,  if  many 
an  "English  Chaplin  "  in  these  days  could  exhibit  as 


Il6      ./    WEEK   ON   THE   CONCORD  RIVER. 

unquestionable  trophies  of  his  valor  as  did  '•  good 
young  Frye.''  We  have  need  to  be  as  sturdy  pioneers 
still  as  Miles  Standish,  or  Church,  or  Lovewell.  We 
are  to  follow  on  another  trail,  it  is  true,  but  one  as 
convenient  for  ambushes.  What  if  the  Indians  are 
exterminated,  are  not  savages  as  grim  prowling  about 
the  clearings  to-day?  — 

"  And  braving  many  dangers  and  hardships  in  the  way, 
They  safe  arrived  at  Dunstable  the  thirteenth  (?)  day  of 
May." 

But  they  did  not  all  -  safe  arrive  in  Dunstable  the 
thirteenth,"'  or  the  fifteenth,  or  the  thirtieth  '' day  of 
May."  Eleazer  Davis  and  Josiah  Jones,  both  of  Con- 
cord, for  our  native  town  had  seven  men  in  this  fight. 
Lieutenant  Farwell,  of  Dunstable,  and  Jonathan  Frye, 
of  Andover,  who  were  all  wounded,  were  left  behind, 
creeping  toward  the  settlements.  "After  travelling 
several  miles,  Frj'e  was  left  and  lost,"'  though  a  more 
recent  poet  has  assigned  him  company  in  his  last 
hours.  — 

"  A  man  he  was  of  comely  form, 

Pohshed  and  brave,  well  learned  and  kind; 
Old  Harvard's  learned  halls  he  left 
Far  in  the  wilds  a  grave  to  find. 

"  Ah  !  now  his  blood-red  arm  he  lifts  ; 
His  closing  lids  he  tries  to  raise ; 
And  speak  once  more  before  he  dies, 
In  supplication  and  in  praise. 

"  He  prays  kind  Heaven  to  grant  success. 
Brave  Lovewell's  men  to  guide  and  bless. 
And  when  they  've  shed  their  heart-blood  true, 
To  raise  them  all  to  happiness."  *  * 


MONDA  K  117 

"  Lieutenant  Farwell  took  his  hand, 
His  arm  around  his  neck  he  threw, 
And  said, '  brave  Chaplain  I  could  wish. 
That  Heaven  had  made  me  die  for  you.'  " 

Farwell  held  out  eleven  days.  "A  tradition  says/^ 
as  we  learn  from  the  history  of  Concord,  ^'  that  arriv- 
ing at  a  pond  with  Lieut.  Farwell,  Davis  pulled  off  one 
of  his  moccasins,  cut  it  in  strings,  on  which  he  fast- 
ened a  hook,  caught  some  fish,  fried  and  ate  them. 
They  refreshed  him,  but  were  injurious  to  Farwell, 
who  died  soon  after.''^  Davis  had  a  ball  lodged  in 
his  body,  and  his  right  hand  shot  off;  but  on  the 
whole,  he  seems  to  have  been  less  damaged  than  his 
companion.  He  came  into  Berwick  after  being  out 
fourteen  days.  Jones  also  had  a  ball  lodged  in  his 
body,  but  he  likewise  got  into  Saco  after  fourteen 
days,  though  not  in  the  best  condition  imaginable. 
"He  had  subsisted,"  says  an  old  journal,  "on  the 
spontaneous  vegetables  of  the  forest ;  and  cranberries, 
which  he  had  eaten,  came  out  of  wounds  he  had  re- 
ceived in  his  body."  This  was  also  the  case  with 
Davis.  The  last  two  reached  home  at  length,  safe 
if  not  sound,  and  lived  many  years  in  a  crippled  state 
to  enjoy  their  pension. 

But  alas!  of  the  crippled  Indians,  and  their  adven- 
tures in  the  woods,  — 

"  For  as  we  are  informed,  so  thick  and  fast  they  fell, 
Scarce  twenty  of  their  number  at  niglit  did  get  home  well,"  — 

how  many  balls  lodged  with  them,  how  it  fared  with 
their  cranberries,  what  Berwick  or  Saco  they  got  into, 
and  finally  what  pension  or  township  was  granted 
them,  there  is  no  journal  to  tell. 

It  is  stated  in  the  History  of  Dunstable,  that  jus* 


I  1 8      A    WEEK   ON   THE   CONCORD   RIVER. 

before  his  last  march,  Lovewell  was  warned  to  beware 
of  the  ambuscades  of  the  enemy,  but  "  he  replied, 
'  that  he  did  not  care  for  them/  and  bending  down 
a  small  elm  beside  which  he  was  standing  into  a  bow, 
declared  'that  he  would  treat  the  Indians  in  the  same 
way.'  This  elm  is  still  standing  [in  Nashua],  a  vener- 
able and  magnificent  tree." 

Meanwhile,  having  passed  the  Horseshoe  Interval  in 
Tyngsboro',  where  the  river  makes  a  sudden  bend  to 
the  northwest,  —  for  our  reflections  have  anticipated 
our  progress  somewhat,  —  we  were  advancing  further 
into  the  country  and  into  the  day,  which  last  proved 
almost  as  golden  as  the  preceding,  though  the  slight 
bustle  and  activity  of  the  Monday  seemed  to  penetrate 
even  to  this  scenery.  Now  and  then  we  had  to  muster 
all  our  energy  to  get  round  a  point,  where  the  river 
broke  rippling  over  rocks,  and  the  maples  trailed  their 
branches  in  the  stream,  but  there  was  generally  a  back- 
water or  eddy  on  the  side,  of  which  we  took  advan- 
tage. The  river  was  here  about  forty  rods  wide  and 
fifteen  feet  deep.  Occasionally  one  ran  along  the 
shore,  examining  the  country,  and  visiting  the  nearest 
farm-houses,  while  the  other  followed  the  windings 
of  the  stream  alone,  to  meet  his  companion  at  some 
distant  point,  and  hear  the  report  of  his  adventures ; 
how  the  farmer  praised  the  coolness  of  his  well,  and 
his  wife  offered  the  stranger  a  draught  of  milk,  or  the 
children  quarrelled  for  the  only  transparency  in  the 
window  that  they  might  get  sight  of  the  man  at 
the  well.  For  though  the  country  seemed  so  new. 
and  no  house  was  observed  by  us,  shut  in  between 
the  high  banks  that  sunny  day,  we  did  not  have  to 
travel  far  to  find  where  men  inhabited,  like  wild  bees, 


MONDA  V.  119 

and  had  sunk  wells  in  the  loose  sand  and  loam  of  the 
Merrimack.  There  dwelt  the  subject  of  the  Hebrew 
scriptures,  and  the  Esprit  des  Lois,  where  a  thin  vapor- 
ous smoke  curled  up  through  the  noon.  All  that  is 
told  of  mankind,  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  Upper 
Nile,  and  the  Sunderbunds,  and  Timbuctoo,  and  the 
Orinoko,  was  experience  here.  Every  race  and  class 
of  men  was  represented.  According  to  Belknap,  the 
liistorian  of  New  Hampshire,  who  wrote  sixty  years 
ago,  here  too,  perchance,  dwelt  "  new  lights,"  and  free 
thinking  men  even  then.  ''The  people  in  general 
throughout  the  State,"  it  is  written,  "  are  professors 
of  the  Christian  religion  in  some  form  or  other. 
There  is,  however,  a  sort  of  ii'/se  me/i,  who  pretend 
to  reject  it ;  but  they  have  not  yet  been  able  to  sub- 
stitute a  better  in  its  place." 

The  other  voyageur,  perhaps,  would  in  the  mean- 
while have  seen  a  brown  hawk,  or  a  woodchuck,  or 
a  musquash,  creeping  under  the  alders. 

We  occasionally  rested  in  the  shade  of  a  maple  or 
a  willow,  and  drew  forth  a  melon  for  our  refreshment, 
while  we  contemplated  at  our  leisure  the  lapse  of  the 
river  and  of  human  life ;  and  as  that  current,  with  its 
floating  twigs  and  leaves,  so  did  all  things  pass  in 
review  before  us,  while  far  away  in  cities  and  marts 
on  this  very  stream,  the  old  routine  was  proceeding 
still.  There  is,  indeed,  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men. 
as  the  poet  says,  and  yet  as  things  flow  they  circulate, 
and  the  ebb  always  balances  the  flow.  All  streams 
are  but  tributary  to  the  ocean,  which  itself  does  not 
stream,  and  the  shores  are  unchanged  but  in  longer 
periods  than  man  can  measure.  Go  where  we  will, 
we  discover  infinite  change  in  particulars  only,  not  in 
go  into  a  museum,  and  see  the 


120      .4    WEEK   OX   THE    COX  CORD   RIVER. 

mummies  wrapped  in  their  linen  bandages.  I  see  that 
the  times  began  to  need  reform  as  long  ago  as  when 
they  walked  the  earth.  I  come  out  into  the  streets, 
and  meet  men  who  declare  that  the  time  is  near  at 
hand  for  the  redemption  of  the  race.  But  as  men 
lived  in  Thebes,  so  do  they  live  in  Dunstable  to-day. 
••  Time  drinketh  up  the  essence  of  every  great  and 
noble  action,  which  ought  to  be  performed,  and  is 
delayed  in  the  execution,"'  so  says  Veeshnoo  Sarma ; 
and  we  perceive  that  the  schemers  return  again  and 
again  to  common  sense  and  labor.  Such  is  the  evi- 
dence of  history. — 

"  Yet  I  doubt  not  thro'  the  ages  one  increasing  purpose  runs. 
And  the  thoughts  of  men  are  widen'd  with  the  process  of  the 
Suns." 

There  are  secret  articles  in  our  treaties  with  the  gods, 
of  more  importance  than  all  the  rest,  which  the  his- 
torian can  never  know. 

There  are  many  skilful  apprentices,  but  few  master 
workmen.  On  every  hand  we  observe  a  truly  wise 
practice,  in  education,  in  morals,  and  in  the  arts  of 
life,  the  embodied  wisdom  of  many  an  ancient  phi- 
losopher. Who  does  not  see  that  heresies  have  some 
time  prevailed,  that  reforms  have  already  taken  place? 
All  this  worldly  wisdom  might  be  regarded  as  the 
once  unamiable  heresy  of  some  wise  man.  Some 
interests  have  got  a  footing  on  the  earth  which  we 
have  not  made  sufficient  allowance  for.  Even  they 
who  first  built  these  barns,  and  cleared  the  land  thus, 
had  some  valor.  The  abrupt  epochs  and  chasms  are 
smoothed  down  in  history  as  the  inequalities  of  the 
plain  are  concealed  by  distance.  But  unless  we  do 
more  than  simnlv  learn  the  trade  of  our  time,  we  are 


MONDAY.  121 

but  apprentices,  and  not  vet  masters  of  the  art  of 
life. 

Now  that  we  are  casting  away  these  melon  seeds, 
how  can  we  help  feeling  reproach?  He  who  eats  the 
fruit,  should  at  least  plant  the  seed  ;  aye,  if  possible, 
a  better  seed  than  that  whose  fruit  he  has  enjoyed. 
Seeds!  there  are  seeds  enough  which  need  only  to  be 
stirred  in  with  the  soil  where  they  lie,  by  an  inspired 
voice  or  pen,  to  bear  fruit  of  a  divine  flavor.  O  thou 
spendthrift!  Defray  thy  debt  to  the  world;  eat  not 
the  seed  of  institutions,  as  the  luxurious  do,  but  plant 
it  rather,  while  thou  devourest  the  pulp  and  tuber  for 
thy  subsistence  ;  that  so,  perchance,  one  variety  may 
at  last  be  found  worthy  of  preservation. 

There  are  moments  when  all  anxiety  and  stated 
toil  are  becalmed  in  the  infinite  leisure  and  repose 
of  nature.  All  laborers  must  have  their  nooning,  and 
at  this  season  of  the  day,  we  are  all,  more  or  less, 
Asiatics,  and  give  over  all  work  and  reform.  While 
lying  thus  on  our  oars  by  the  side  of  the  stream,  in 
the  heat  of  the  day,  our  boat  held  by  an  osier  put 
through  the  staple  in  its  prow,  and  slicing  the  melons, 
which  are  a  fruit  of  the  east,  our  thoughts  reverted  to 
Arabia,  Persia,  and  Hindostan,  the  lands  of  contem- 
plation and  dwelling  places  of  the  ruminant  nations. 
In  the  experience  of  this  noontide  we  could  find  some 
apology  even  for  the  instinct  of  the  opium,  betel,  and 
tobacco  chewers.  Mount  Saber,  according  to  the 
F'rench  traveller  and  naturalist,  Botta,  is  celebrated 
for  producing  the  Kdt  tree,  of  which  '■'■  the  soft  tops 
of  the  twigs  and  tender  leaves  are  eaten, '^  says  his 
reviewer,  '"  and  produce  an  agreeable  soothing  excite- 
ment, restoring  from  fatigue,  banishing  sleep,  and 
disposing  to  the    enjoyment  of  conversation."     We 


122      A    WEEK   ON   THE    CO  A' CORD  RIVER. 

thought  that  we  might  lead  a  dignified  oriental  life 
along  this  stream  as  well,  and  the  maple  and  alders 
would  be  our  Kat  trees. 

It  is  a  great  pleasure  to  escape  sometimes  from  the 
restless  class  of  Reformers.  What  if  these  grievances 
exist?  So  do  you  and  I.  Think  you  that  sitting 
hens  are  troubled  with  ennui  these  long  summer  days, 
sitting  on  and  on  in  the  crevice  of  a  hay-loft,  without 
active  emplo3'ment?  By  the  faint  cackling  in  distant 
barns.  I  judge  that  dame  Nature  is  interested  to  know 
how  many  eggs  her  hens  lay.  The  Universal  Soul, 
as  it  is  called,  has  an  interest  in  the  stacking  of  hay, 
the  foddering  of  cattle,  and  the  draining  of  peat 
meadows.  Away  in  Scythia,  away  in  India,  it  makes 
butter  and  cheese.  Suppose  that  all  farms  are  run 
out,  and  we  youths  must  buy  old  land  and  bring  it  to, 
still  ever}^where  the  relentless  opponents  of  reform 
bear  a  strange  resemblance  to  ourselves ;  or  per- 
chance, they  are  a  few  old  maids  and  .bachelors,  who 
sit  round  the  kitchen  hearth,  and  listen  to  the  sing- 
ing of  the  kettle.  "The  oracles  often  give  victory 
to  our  choice,  and  not  to  the  order  alone  of  the  mun- 
dane periods.  As,  for  instance,  when  they  say,  that 
our  voluntary  sorrows  germinate  in  us  as  the  growth 
of  the  particular  life  we  lead."'  The  reform  which 
you  talk  about  can  be  undertaken  any  mornmg  before 
unbarring  our  doors.  We  need  not  call  any  conven- 
tion. Wlien  two  neighbors  begin  to  eat  corn  bread, 
who  before  ate  wheat,  then  the  gods  smile  from  ear 
to  ear,  for  it  is  very  pleasant  to  them.  Why  do  you 
not  try  it?     Don't  let  me  hinder  you. 

There  are  theoretical  reformers  at  all  times,  and  aU 
the  world  over,  living  on  anticipation.  Wolff,  travel- 
ling in  the  deserts  of  Bokhara,  says  :  •'  Another  party 


MONDAY.  123 

of  derveeshes  came  to  me  and  observed,  '■  The  time 
will  come  when  there  shall  be  no  difference  between 
rich  and  poor,  between  high  and  low,  when  property 
will  be  in  common,  even  wives  and  children.'  "  But 
torever  I  ask  of  such,  What  then?  The  derveeshes 
in  the  deserts  of  Bokhara  and  the  reformers  in  Marl- 
lioro'  Chapel  sing  the  same  song.  "  There  's  a  good 
time  coming,  boys,"  but,  asked  one  of  the  audience  in 
good  faith,  "Can  you  fix  the  date?  "  Said  I,  "  Will 
you  help  it  along?  " 

The  nonchalance  and  dolce-far-niente  air  of  nature 
and  society  hint  at  infinite  periods  in  the  progress  of 
mankind.  The  States  have  leisure  to  laugh  from 
Maine  to  Texas  at  some  newspaper  joke,  and  New 
England  shakes  at  the  double-entendres  of  Australian 
circles,  while  the  poor  reformer  cannot  get  a  hear- 
ing. 

Men  do  not  fail  commonly  for  want  of  knowledge. 
but  for  want  of  prudence  to  give  wisdom  the  prefer- 
ence. What  we  need  to  know  in  any  case  is  very 
simple.  It  is  but  too  easy  to  establish  another 
durable  and  harmonious  routine.  Immediately  all 
parts  of  nature  consent  to  it.  Only  make  something 
to  take  the  place  of  something,  and  men  will  behave 
as  if  it  were  the  very  thing  they  wanted.  They  imtst 
behave,  at  any  rate,  and  will  work  up  any  material. 
There  is  always  a  present  and  extant  life,  be  it  better 
or  worse,  which  all  combine  to  uphold.  We  should 
be  slow  to  mend,  my  friends,  as  slow  to  require  mend- 
ing, "  Not  hurling,  according  to  the  oracle,  a  transcend- 
ent foot  towards  piety."  The  language  of  excitement 
is  at  best  picturesque  merely.  You  must  be  calm  before 
you  can  utter  oracles.  What  was  the  excitement  of 
the  Delphic  priestess  compared  with  the  calm  wisdi)in 


124      --^    WEEK   OX   THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

of  Socrates?  —  or  whoever  it  was  that  was  wise. — 
Enthusiasm  is  a  supernatural  serenity. 

"  Men  find  that  action  is  another  thing 

Than  what  they  in  discoursing  papers  read; 
The  world's  affairs  require  in  managing 

More  arts  than  those  wherein  you  clerks  proceed." 

As  in  geology,  so  in  social  institutions,  we  may  dis- 
cover the  causes  of  all  past  change  in  the  present 
invariable  order  of  society.  The  greatest  appreciable 
physical  revolutions  are  the  work  of  the  light-footed 
air,  the  stealthy-paced  water,  and  the  subterranean 
fire.  Aristotle  said,  '•  As  time  never  fails,  and  the 
universe  is  eternal,  neither  the  Tanais  nor  the  Nile, 
can  have  flowed  forever."  We  are  independent  of 
the  change  we  detect.  The  longer  the  lever  the  less 
perceptible  its  motion.  It  is  the  slowest  pulsation 
which  is  the  most  vital.  The  hero  then  will  know 
how  to  wait,  as  well  as  to  make  haste.  All  good 
abides  with  him  who  waiteth  'wisely ;  we  shall  sooner 
overtake  the  dawn  by  remaining  here  than  by  hurry- 
ing over  the  hills  of  the  west.  Be  assured  that  every 
man's  success  is  in  proportion  to  his  average  ability. 
The  meadow  flowers  spring  and  bloom  where  the 
waters  annually  deposit  their  slime,  not  where  they 
reach  in  some  freshet  only.  A  man  is  not  his  hope, 
nor  his  despair,  nor  yet  his  past  deed.  We  know  not 
vet  what  we  have  done,  still  less  what  we  are  doing. 
Wait  till  evening,  and  other  parts  of  our  day's  work 
will  shine  than  we  had  thought  at  noon,  and  we  shall 
discover  the  real  purport  of  our  toil.  As  when  the 
farmer  has  reached  the  end  of  the  furrow  and  looks 
back,  he  can  best  tell  where  the  pressed  earth  shines 
most. 


A/oyDAV.  125 

To  one  who  habitually  endeavors  to  contemplate 
the  true  state  of  things,  the  political  state  can  hardly 
be  said  to  have  any  existence  whatever.  It  is  unreal, 
incredible  and  insignificant  to  him,  and  for  him  to 
endeavor  to  extract  the  truth  from  such  lean  material 
is  like  making  sugar  from  linen  rags,  when  sugar  cane 
may  be  had.  Generally  speaking,  the  political  news, 
whether  domestic  or  foreign,  might  be  written  to-day 
for  the  next  ten  years,  with  sufficient  accuracy.  Most 
revolutions  in  society  have  not  power  to  interest,  still 
less  alarm  us  ;  but  tell  me  that  our  rivers  are  drying 
up,  or  the  genus  pine  dying  out  in  the  country,  and  I 
might  attend.  Most  events  recorded  in  history  are 
more  remarkable  than  important,  like  eclipses  of  the 
sun  and  moon,  by  w^hich  all  are  attracted,  but  whose 
effects  no  one  takes  the  trouble  to  calculate.  But  will 
the  government  never  be  so  well  administered,  inquired 
one,  that  we  private  men  shall  hear  nothing  about  it? 
"  The  king  answered :  At  all  events,  I  require  a  pru- 
dent and  able  man,  who  is  capable  of  managing  the 
state  affairs  of  my  kingdom.  The  ex-minister  said, 
The  criterion,  O  Sire!  of  a  wise  and  competent  man, 
is,  that  he  will  not  meddle  with  such  like  matters." 
Alas,  that  the  ex-minister  should  have  been  so  nearly 
right. 

In  my  short  experience  of  human  life,  the  outward 
obstacles,  if  there  were  any  such,  have  not  been  living 
men,  but  the  institutions  of  the  dead.  It  is  grateful 
to  make  one's  way  through  this  latest  generation  as 
through  dewy  grass.  Men  are  as  innocent  as  the 
morning  to  tlie  unsuspicious.  — 


"And  round  about  good-morrows  fly, 
As  if  day  tautrlit  humanity." 


126       -^    WEEK   OX   THE    CONCORD   RIVER 

Not  being  Reve  of  this  Shire, 

"  The  early  pilgrim  blithe  he  hailed, 
That  o'er  the  hills  did  stray, 
And  many  an  early  husbandman, 
That  he  met  on  his  way ;  "  — 

thieves  and  robbers  all  nevertheless.  I  have  not  so 
surely  foreseen  that  any  Cossack  or  Chippeway  would 
come  to  disturb  the  honest  and  simple  commonwealth, 
as  that  some  monster  institution  would  at  length 
embrace  and  crush  its  free  members  in  its  scaly 
folds ;  for  it  is  not  to  be  forgotten,  that  while  the 
law  holds  fast  the  thief  and  murderer,  it  lets  itself 
go  loose.  When  I  have  not  paid  the  tax  which  the 
State  demanded  for  that  protection  which  I  did  not 
want,  itself  has  robbed  me :  when  I  have  asserted 
the  liberty  it  presumed  to  declare,  itself  has  impris- 
oned me.  Poor  creature!  if  it  knows  no  better  I 
will  not  blame  it.  If  it  cannot  live  but  by  these 
means,  I  can.  I  do  not  wish,  it  happens,  to  be 
associated  with  Massachusetts,  either  in  holding 
slaves  or  in  conquering  Mexico.  I  am  a  little  better 
than  herself  in  these  respects.  —  As  for  Massachusetts, 
that  huge  she  Briareus,  Argus,  and  Colchian  Dragon 
conjoined,  set  to  watch  the  Heifer  of  the  Constitution 
and  the  Golden  Fleece,  we  would  not  warrant  our 
respect  for  her,  like  some  compositions,  to  preserve 
its  qualities  through  all  weathers.  —  Thus  it  has 
happened,  that  not  the  Arch  Fiend  himself  has  been 
m  my  way,  but  these  toils  which  tradition  says  were 
originally  spun  to  obstruct  him.  They  are  cobwebs 
and  trifling  obstacles  in  an  earnest  man's  path,  it  is 
true,  and  at  length  one  even  becomes  attached  to  his 
unswept  and  undusted  garret.      I  love  man — kind,  but 


MONDAY.  127 

I  hate  the  institutions  of  the  dead  unkind.  Men 
execute  nothing  so  faithful!}^  as  the  wills  of  the  dead, 
to  the  last  codicil  and  letter.  They  rule  this  world, 
and  the  living  are  but  their  executors.  Such  founda- 
tion too  have  our  lectures  and  our  sermons  commonly. 
They  are  all  Diidleian ;  and  piety  derives  its  origin 
still  from  that  exploit  of  ^ms  ^neas,  who  bore  his 
father,  Anchises,  on  his  shoulders  from  the  ruins  of 
Troy.  Or  rather,  like  some  Indian  tribes,  we  bear 
about  with  us  the  mouldering  relics  of  our  ancestors 
on  our  shoulders.  If,  for  instance,  a  man  asserts  the 
value  of  individual  liberty  over  the  merely  political 
commonweal,  his  neighbor  still  tolerates  him,  that 
is  he  who  is  living  near  him.  sometimes  even  sustains 
him,  but  never  the  State.  Its  officer,  as  a  living  man, 
may  have  human  virtues  and  a  thought  in  his  brain, 
but  as  the  tool  of  an  institution,  a  jailor  or  constable 
it  may  be,  he  is  not  a  whit  superior  to  his  prison  key 
or  his  staff.  Herein  is  the  tragedy ;  that  men  doing 
outrage  to  their  proper  natures,  even  those  called  wise 
and  good,  lend  themselves  to  perform  the  office  of 
inferior  and  brutal  ones.  Hence  come  war  and 
slavery  in ;  and  what  else  may  not  come  in  by  this 
opening  ?  But  certainly  there  are  modes  by  which  a 
man  may  put  bread  into  his  mouth  which  will  not 
prejudice  him  as  a  companion  and  neighbor. 

"  Now  turn  again,  turn  again,  said  the  pinder, 
For  a  wrong  way  you  have  gone. 
For  you  have  forsaken  the  king's  highway, 
And  made  a  path  over  the  corn." 

Undoubtedly,  countless  reforms  are  called  for,  be- 
cause society  is  not  animated,  or  instinct  enough  with 
life,  but  in  the  condition  of  some  snakes  which  I  have 
seen  in  early  spring,  with  alternate  portions  of  their 


128      A    WEEK   ON   THE    COX  CORD  RIVER, 

bodies  torpid  and  flexible,  so  that  they  could  wriggle 
neither  way.  All  men  are  partially  buried  in  the 
grave  of  custom,  and  of  some  we  see  only  the  crown 
of  the  head  above  ground.  Better  are  the  physically 
dead,  for  they  more  lively  rot.  Even  virtue  is  no 
longer  such  if  it  be  stagnant.  A  man's  life  should 
be  constantly  as  fresh  as  this  river.  It  should  be  the 
same  channel,  but  a  new  water  every  instant.  — 

"  Virtues  as  rivers  pass, 

But  still  remains  that  virtuous  man  there  was." 

Most  men  have  no  inclination,  no  rapids,  no  cascades, 
but  marshes,  and  alligators,  and  miasma  instead.  We 
read  that  when  in  the  expedition  of  Alexander.  One- 
sicritus  was  sent  forward  to  meet  certain  of  the  Indian 
sect  of  G5'mnosophists.  and  he  had  told  them  of  those 
new  philosophers  of  the  west,  Pythagoras,  Socrates, 
and  Diogenes,  and  their  doctrines,  one  of  them  named 
Dandamis  answered,  that  "They  appeared  to  him  to 
have  been  men  of  genius,  but  to  have  lived  with  too 
passive  a  regard  for  the  laws.''  The  philosophers  of 
the  west  are  liable  to  this  rebuke  still.  -They  say 
that  Lieou-hia-hoei,  and  Chao-lien  did  not  sustain  to 
the  end  their  resolutions,  and  that  they  dishonored 
their  character.  Their  language  was  in  harmony  with 
reason  and  justice ;  while  their  acts  were  in  harmony 
with  the  sentiments  of  men."' 

Chateaubriand  said,  '■^  There  are  two  things  which 
grow  stronger  in  the  breast  of  man.  in  proportion  as 
he  advances  in  years ;  the  love  of  country  and  reli- 
gion. Let  them  be  never  so  much  forgotten  in  youth, 
they  sooner  or  later  present  themselves  to  us  arrayed 
in  all  their  charms,  and  excite  in  the  recesses  of  our 
hearts,  an  attachment  justly  due  to  their  beauty.''     It 


MONDAY.  129 

may  be  so.  But  even  this  infirmity  of  noble  minds 
marks  the  gradual  decay  of  youthful  hope  and  faith. 
It  is  the  allowed  infidelity  of  age.  There  is  a  saying 
of  the  Yoloifs,  "  He  who  was  born  first  has  the  greatest 
number  of  old  clothes,"  consequently  M.  Chateaubri- 
and has  more  old  clothes  than  I  have.  It  is  com- 
i^aratively  a  faint  and  reflected  beauty  that  is  admired, 
not  an  essential  and  intrinsic  one.  It  is  because  the 
old  are  weak,  feel  their  mortality,  and  think  that  they 
liave  measured  the  strength  of  man.  They  will  not 
boast ;  they  will  be  frank  and  humble.  Well,  let  them 
have  the  few  poor  comforts  they  can  keep.  Humility 
is  still  a  very  human  virtue.  They  look  back  on  life, 
and  so  see  not  into  the  future.  The  prospect  of  the 
young  is  forward  and  unbounded,  mingling  the  future 
with  the  present.  In  the  declining  day  the  thoughts 
make  haste  to  rest  in  darkness,  and  hardly  look  for- 
ward to  the  ensuing  morning.  The  thoughts  of  the 
old  prepare  for  night  and  slumber.  The  same  hopes 
and  prospects  are  not  for  him  who  stands  upon  the 
rosy  mountain-tops  of  life,  and  him  who  expects  the 
setting  of  his  earthly  day. 

I  must  conclude  that  Conscience,  if  that  be  the 
name  of  it,  was  not  given  us  for  no  purpose,  or  for  a 
hindrance.  However  flattering  order  and  experience 
may  look,  it  is  but  the  repose  of  a  lethargy,  and  we 
will  choose  rather  to  be  awake,  though  it  be  stormy, 
and  maintain  ourselves  on  this  earth  and  in  this  life, 
as  we  may,  without  signing  our  death-warrant.  Let 
us  see  if  we  cannot  stay  here  where  He  has  put  us,  on 
his  own  conditions.  Does  not  his  law  reach  as  far  as 
his  light?  The  expedients  of  the  nations  clash  with 
one  another,  onlv  the  absolutelv  right  is  expedient  for 
all. 


I30      ./    WEEK   Oy   THE    COXCORD   RIVER. 

There  are  some  passages  in  the  Antigone  of  Sopho- 
cles, well  known  to  scholars,  of  which  I  am  reminded 
in  this  connection.  Antigone  has  resolved  to  sprinkle 
sand  on  the  dead  body  of  her  brother,  Pol3'nices.  not- 
withstanding the  edict  of  King  Creon  condemning  to 
death  that  one  who  should  perform  this  service,  which 
the  Greeks  deemed  so  important,  for  the  enemy  of  his 
country ;  but  Ismene,  who  is  of  a  less  resolute  and 
noble  spirit,  declines  taking  part  with  her  sister  in 
this  work,  and  says,  — 

"  I,  therefore,  asking  those  under  the  earth  to  con- 
sider me,  that  I  am  compelled  to  do  thus,  will  obey 
those  who  are  placed  in  office :  for  to  do  extreme 
things  is  not  wise." 

ANTIGONE. 

"  I  would  not  ask  you.  nor  would  you,  if  you  still 
wished,  do  it  joyfully  with  me.  Be  such  as  seems 
good  to  you.  But  I  will  bury  him.  It  is  glorious  for 
me  doing  this  to  die.  I  beloved  will  lie  with  him 
beloved,  having,  like  a  criminal,  done  what  is  holy; 
since  the  time  is  longer  which  it  is  necessary  for  me 
to  please  those  below,  than  those  here,  for  there  I 
shall  always  lie.  But  if  it  seems  good  to  you,  hold  in 
dishonor  things  which  are  honored  by  the  gods.'" 

ISMENE. 

"I  indeed  do  not  hold  them  in  dishonor;  but  to  act 
in  opposition  to  the  citizens  I  am  by  nature  unable." 

Antigone  being  at  length  brought  before  King 
Creon,  he  asks, 

'•  Did  vou  then  dare  to  transgress  these  laws?" 


MO  NBA  V.  131 

ANTIGONE. 

"  For  it  was  not  Zeus  who  proclaimed  these  to  me, 
nor  Justice  who  dwells  with  the  gods  below ;  it  was 
not  they  who  established  these  laws  among  men. 
Nor  did  I  think  that  your  proclamations  were  so 
strong,  as,  being  a  mortal,  to  be  able  to  transcend  the 
unwritten  and  immovable  laws  of  the  gods.  For  not 
something  now  and  yesterday,  but  forever  these  live, 
and  no  one  knows  from  what  time  they  appeared.  I 
was  not  about  to  pay  the  penalty  of  violating  these  to 
the  gods,  fearing  the  presumption  of  any  man.  For 
I  well  knew  that  I  should  die,  and  why  not?  even  if 
you  had  not  proclaimed  it." 

This  was  concerning  the  burial  of  a  dead  body. 

The  wisest  conservatism  is  that  of  the  Hindoos. 
"  Immemorial  custom  is  transcendent  law,"  says  Menu. 
That  is,  it  was  the  custom  of  the  gods  before  men 
used  it.  The  fault  of  our  New  England  custom  is 
that  it  is  memorial.  What  is  morality  but  immemo- 
rial custom?  Conscience  is  the  chief  of  conserva- 
tives. "Perform  the  settled  functions,"  says  Kreeshna 
in  the  Bhagvat-Geeta,  "action  is  preferable  to  inac- 
tion. The  journey  of  thy  mortal  frame  may  not  suc- 
ceed from  inaction."  —  "A  man's  own  calling,  with  all 
its  faults,  ought  not  to  be  forsaken.  Every  undertak- 
ing is  involved  in  its  faults  as  the  fire  in  its  smoke."  — 
"  The  man  who  is  acquainted  with  the  whole,  should 
not  drive  those  from  their  works  who  are  slow  of 
comprehension,  and  less  experienced  than  himself."  — 
"Wherefore,  O  Arjoon,  resolve  to  fight,"  —  is  the 
advice  of  the  God  to  the  irresolute  soldier  who  fears 
to  slav  his  best  friends.     It  is  a  sublime  conservatism  : 


132      A    WEEK   OX   THE    COXCORD   RIVER. 

as  wide  as  the  world,  and  as  unwearied  as  time  ;  pre- 
serving the  universe  with  Asiatic  anxiety,  in  that  state 
in  which  it  appeared  to  their  minds.  These  philoso- 
phers dwell  on  the  inevitability  and  unchangeableness 
of  laws,  on  the  power  of  temperament  and  constitu- 
tion, the  three,^»^;/  or  qualities,  and  the  circumstances 
of  birth  and  affinity.  The  end  is  an  immense  conso- 
lation ;  eternal  absorption  in  Brahma.  Their  specu- 
lations never  venture  beyond  their  own  table  lands, 
though  they  are  high  and  vast  as  they.  Buoyancy, 
freedom,  flexibility,  variety,  possibility,  which  also  are 
qualities  of  the  Unnamed,  they  deal  not  with.  The 
undeserved  reward  is  to  be  earned  by  an  everlasting 
moral  drudgery :  the  incalculable  promise  of  the  mor- 
row is,  as  it  were,  w^eighed.  And  who  will  say  that  their 
conservatism  has  not  been  effectual.  "Assuredly,"' 
says  a  French  translator,  speaking  of  the  antiquity 
and  durability  of  the  Chinese  and  Indian  nations,  and 
of  the  wisdom  of  their  legislators,  "there  are  there 
some  vestiges  of  the  eternal  laws  v/hich  govern  the 
world.-^ 

Christianity,  on  the  other  hand,  is  humane,  practi- 
cal, and,  in  a  large  sense,  radical.  So  many  years 
and  ages  of  the  gods  those  eastern  sages  sat  contem- 
plating Brahm,  uttering  in  silence  the  mystic  "  Om."' 
being  absorbed  into  the  essence  of  the  Supreme  Being, 
never  going  out  of  themselves,  but  subsiding  further 
and  deeper  within ;  so  infinitely  wise,  yet  infinitely 
stagnant ;  until,  at  last,  in  that  same  Asia,  but  in  the 
western  part  of  it.  appeared  a  youth,  wholly  unforetold 
by  them,  —  not  being  absorbed  into  Brahm,  but  bring- 
ing Brahm  down  to  earth  and  to  mankind  ;  in  whom 
Brahm  had  awaked  from  his  long  sleep,  and  exerted 
himself,   and   the   dav   beean.  —  a   new  avatar.     The 


MONDAY.  133 

Brahman  had  never  thought  to  be  a  brother  of  man- 
kind as  well  as  a  child  of  God.  Christ  is  the  prince 
of  Reformers  and  Radicals.  Many  expressions  in 
the  New  Testament  come  naturally  to  the  lips  of  all 
protestants,  and  it  furnishes  the  most  pregnant  and 
practical  texts.  There  is  no  harmless  dreaming,  no 
wise  speculation  in  it,  but  everywhere  a  substratum 
of  good  sense.  \\xi^\txreflects^h\i\\\.repents.  There 
is  no  poetry  in  it,  we  may  say,  nothing  regarded  in  the 
light  of  pure  beauty,  but  moral  truth  is  its  object. 
All  mortals  are  convicted  by  its  conscience. 

The  New  Testament  is  remarkable  for  its  pure 
morality ;  the  best  of  the  Hindoo  Scripture,  for  its 
pure  intellectuality.  The  reader  is  nowhere  raised 
into  and  sustained  in  a  higher,  purer,  or  rare?-  region 
of  thought  than  in  the  Bhagvat-Geeta.  Warren  Has- 
tings, in  his  sensible  letter  recommending  the  trans- 
lation of  this  book  to  the  Chairman  of  the  East  India 
Company,  declares  the  original  to  be  '-of  a  sublimity 
of  conception,  reasoning,  and  diction,  almost  une- 
qualled,'' and  that  the  writings  of  the  Indian  philoso- 
phers "  will  survive  when  the  British  dominion  in 
India  shall  have  long  ceased  to  exist,  and  when  the 
sources  which  it  once  yielded  of  wealth  and  power 
are  lost  to  remembrance.''  It  is  unquestionably  one 
of  the  noblest  and  most  sacred  scriptures  that  have 
come  down  to  us.  Books  are  to  be  distinguished  by 
the  grandeur  of  their  topics,  even  more  than  by  the 
manner  in  which  they  are  treated.  The  oriental  phi- 
losophy approaches,  easily,  loftier  themes  than  the 
modern  aspires  to ;  and  no  wonder  if  it  sometimes 
prattle  about  them.  //  only  assigns  their  due  rank 
respectively  to  Action  and  Contemplation,  or  rather 
does  full  justice  to  the  latter.     Western  philosophers 


134      -^    ii^EEK   OX   THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

have  not  conceived  of  the  significance  of  Contempla- 
tion in  their  sense.  Speaking  of  the  spiritual  disci- 
pline to  which  the  Brahmans  subjected  themselves, 
and  the  wonderful  power  of  abstraction  to  which  they 
attained,  instances  of  which  had  come  under  his 
notice,  Hastings  says  :  — 

''  To  those  who  have  never  been  accustomed  to  the 
separation  of  the  mind  from  the  notices  of  the  senses, 
it  may  not  be  easy  to  conceive  by  what  means  such  a 
power  is  to  be  attained  ;  since  even  the  most  studious 
men  of  our  hemisphere  will  find  it  difficult  so  to  re- 
strain their  attention,  but  that  it  will  wander  to  some 
object  of  present  sense  or  recollection  ;  and  even  the 
buzzing  of  a  fly  will  sometimes  have  the  power  to  dis- 
turb it.  But  if  we  are  told  that  there  have  been  men 
who  were  successively,  for  ages  past,  in  the  daily 
habit  of  abstracted  contemplation,  begun  in  the  earli- 
est period  of  youth,  and  continued  in  many  to  the 
maturity  of  age,  each  adding  some  portion  of  knowl- 
edge to  the  store  accumulated  by  his  predecessors ; 
it  is  not  assuming  too  much  to  conclude,  that  as  the 
mind  ever  gathers  strength,  like  the  body,  by  exercise, 
so  in  such  an  exercise  it  may  in  each  have  acquired 
the  faculty  to  which  they  aspired,  and  that  their  col- 
lective studies  may  have  led  them  to  the  discovery  of 
new  tracks  and  combinations  of  sentiment,  totally  dif- 
ferent from  the  doctrines  with  which  the  learned  of 
other  nations  are  acquainted  ;  doctrines  which,  how- 
ever speculative  and  subtle,  still,  as  they  possess  the 
advantage  of  being  derived  from  a  source  so  free  from 
every  adventitious  mixture,  may  be  equally  founded 
in  ti-uth  with  the  most  simple  of  our  own.'' 


k 


MONDAY.  135 

'•The  forsaking  of  works"  was  taught  by  Kreeshna 
to  the  most  ancient  of  men,  and  handed  down  from 
one  to  another,  "until  at  length,  in  the  course  of  time, 
the  mighty  art  was  lost. 

"  In  wisdom  is  to  be  found  every  work  without  ex- 
ception," says  Kreeshna, 

"'  Although  thou  wert  the  greatest  of  all  offenders, 
thou  shalt  be  able  to  cross  the  gulf  of  sin  with  the 
bark  of  wisdom ." 

"There  is  not  anything  in  this  world  to  be  com- 
pared with  wisdom  for  purity.''' 

"The  action  stands  at  a  distance  inferior  to  the 
application  of  wisdom.'' 

The  wisdom  of  a  Moonee  "  is  confirmed,  when,  like 
the  tortoise,  he  can  draw  in  all  his  members,  and  re- 
strain them  from  their  wonted  purposes." 

"  Children  only,  and  not  the  learned,  speak  of  the 
speculative  and  the  practical  doctrines  as  two.  They 
are  but  one.  For  both  obtain  the  self-same  end,  and 
the  place  which  is  gained  by  the  followers  of  the  one, 
is  gained  by  the  followers  of  the  other." 

"  The  man  enjoyeth  not  freedom  from  action,  from 
the  non-commencement  of  that  which  he  hath  to  do ; 
nor  doth  he  obtain  happiness  from  a  total  inactivity. 
No  one  ever  resteth  a  moment  inactive.  Every  man 
is  involuntarily  urged  to  act  by  those  principles  which 
are  inherent  in  his  nature.  The  man  who  restraineth 
his  active  faculties,  and  sitteth  down  with  his  mind  at- 
tentive to  the  objects  of  his  senses,  is  called  one  of  an 
astrayed  soul,  and  the  practiser  of  deceit.  So  the 
man  is  praised,  who,  having  subdued  all  his  passions, 
performeth  with  his  active  faculties  all  the  functions 
of  life,  unconcerned  about  the  event." 

"  Let  the   motive   be  in  the  deed  and  not  in   the 


136      .4    WEEK   ON   THE    CONCORD  RIVER. 

event.  Be  not  one  whose  motive  for  action  is  the  hoj'e 
of  reward.     Let  not  thy  life  be  spent  in  inaction." 

"  For  the  man  who  doeth  that  which  he  hath  to  do, 
without  affection,  obtaineth  the  Supreme.'' 

'•  He  who  may  behold,  as  it  were  inaction  in  action, 
and  action  in  inaction,  is  wise  amongst  mankind. 
He  is  a  perfect  performer  of  all  duty." 

'•Wise  men  call  him  a  Pandect,  whose  every  under- 
taking is  free  from  the  idea  of  desire,  and  whose 
actions  are  consumed  by  the  fire  of  wisdom.  He 
abandoneth  the  desire  of  a  reward  of  his  actions ;  he 
is  always  contented  and  independent ;  and  although 
he  may  be  engaged  in  a  work,  he,  as  it  were,  doeth 
nothing." 

'•  He  is  both  a  Yogee  and  a  Sannyasee  who  per- 
formeth  that  which  he  hath  to  do  independent  of  the 
fruit  thereof;  not  he  who  liveth  without  the  sacrificial 
fire  and  without  action.'' 

"He  who  enjoyeth  but  the  Amreeta  which  is  left  of 
his  offerings,  obtaineth  the  eternal  spirit  of  Brahm, 
the  Supreme." 

What  after  all  does  the  practicalness  of  life  amount 
to?  The  things  immediate  to  be  done  are  very  trivial. 
I  could  postpone  them  all  to  hear  this  locust  sing. 
The  most  glorious  fact  in  our  experience  is  not  any- 
thing that  we  have  done  or  may  hope  to  do,  but  a 
transient  thought,  or  vision,  or  dream,  which  we  have 
had.  I  would  give  all  the  wealth  of  the  world,  and  all 
the  deeds  of  all  the  heroes,  for  one  true  vision.  But 
how  can  I  communicate  with  the  gods  who  am  a 
pencil-maker  on  the  earth,  and  not  be  insane? 

'•  I  am  the  same  to  all  mankind,"  says  Kreeshna ; 
''  there  is  not  one  who  is  worthy  of  my  love  or  hatred." 


MONDAY.  137 

This  teaching  is  not  practical  in  the  sense  in  which 
the  New  Testament  is.  It  is  not  always  sound  sense 
in  practice.  The  Brahman  never  proposes  courage- 
ously to  assault  evil,  but  patiently  to  starve  it  out. 
His  active  faculties  are  paralyzed  by  the  idea  of  caste, 
of  impassable  limits,  of  destiny,  and  the  tyranny  of 
time.  Kreeshna's  argument,  it  must  be  allowed,  is 
defective.  No  sufficient  reason  is  given  why  Arjoon 
should  fight.  Arjoon  may  be  convinced,  but  the 
reader  is  not,  for  his  judgment  is  ;^<9/ "formed  upon 
speculative  doctrines  of  the  Sankhya  SastraP  "  Seek 
an  asylum  in  wisdom  alone,"  —  but  what  is  wisdom 
to  a  western  mind?  He  speaks  of  duty,  but  the  duty 
of  which  he  speaks,  is  it  not  an  arbitrary  one  ?  When 
was  it  established?  The  Brahman's  virtue  consists 
not  in  doing  right,  but  arbitrary  things.  What  is  that 
which  a  man  "hath  to  do"?  What  is  "action"? 
What  are  the  "  settled  functions  "  ?  What  is  "  a  man's 
own  religion,"  which  is  so  much  better  than  another's? 
What  is  "  a  man's  own  particular  calling  "  ?  What  are 
the  duties  which  are  appointed  by  one's  birth?  It 
is  in  fact  a  defence  of  the  institution  of  caste,  of  what 
is  called  the  "  natural  duty "  of  the  Kshetree,  or 
soldier,  "  to  attach  himself  to  the  discipline,"  "  not  to 
flee  from  the  field,"  and  the  like.  But  they  who  are 
unconcerned  about  the  consequences  of  their  actions, 
are  not  therefore  unconcerned  about  their  actions.  — 
Yet  we  know  not  where  we  should  look  for  a  loftier 
speculative  faith. 

Behold  the  difference  between  the  oriental  and  the 
occidental.  The  former  has  nothing  to  do  in  this  world  ; 
the  latter  is  full  of  activity.  The  one  looks  in  the  sun 
till  his  eyes  are  put  out ;  the  other  follows  him  prone 
in  his  westward   course.     There  is  such  a  thins  as 


138      .4    WEEK   ON   THE    CONCORD  RIVER. 

caste,  even  in  the  West :  but  it  is  comparatively  faint. 
It  is  consenatism  here.  It  says  forsake  not  your 
calling,  outrage  no  institution,  use  no  violence,  rend  no 
bonds.  The  State  is  thy  parent.  Its  virtue  or  man- 
hood is  wholly  filial.  There  is  a  struggle  between 
the  oriental  and  occidental  in  every  nation  ;  some  who 
would  be  forever  contemplating  the  sun,  and  some 
who  are  hastening  toward  the  sunset.  The  former 
class  says  to  the  latter,  When  you  have  reached  the 
sunset,  you  will  be  no  nearer  to  the  sun.  To  which 
the  latter  replies,  But  we  so  prolong  the  day.  The 
former  '•  walketh  but  in  that  night,  when  all  things  go 
to  rest,  the  night  of  time.  The  contemplative  Moonee 
sleepeth  but  in  the  day  of  time  when  all  things  wake." 

To  conclude  these  extracts,  I  can  say,  in  the  words 
of  Sanjay.  '"'As,  O  mighty  Prince!  I  recollect  again 
and  again  this  holy  and  wonderful  dialogue  of 
Kreeshna  and  Arjoon.  I  continue  more  and  more  to 
rejoice ;  and  as  I  recall  to  my  memory  the  more  than 
miraculous  form  of  Haree,  my  astonishment  is  great, 
and  I  marvel  and  rejoice  again  and  again  !  Wherever 
Kreeshna  the  God  of  devotion  may  be,  wherever 
Arjoon  the  mighty  bowman  may  be,  there  too,  without 
doubt,  are  fortune,  riches,  victory,  and  good  conduct. 
This  is  my  firm  belief."' 

I  would  say  to  the  readers  of  Scriptures,  if  they 
wish  for  a  good  book  to  read.  Read  the  Bhagvat- 
Geeta,  an  episode  to  the  Mahabharat,  said  to  have 
been  written  by  Kreeshna  Dwypayen  Veias,  —  known 

to  have  been  written  by ,  more  than  four  thousand 

years  ago,  —  it  matters  not  whether  three  or  four,  or 
when,  —  translated  by  Charles  Wilkins.  It  deserves 
to  be  read  with  reverence  even  by  Yankees,  as  a  part 
of  the  sacred  writings  of  a  devout  people ;  and  the 


MONDA  V.  139 

intelligent  Hebrew  will  rejoice  to  find  in  it  a  moral 
grandeur  and  sublimity  akin  to  those  of  his  own 
Scriptures. 

To  an  American  reader,  who,  by  the  advantage 
of  his  position,  can  see  over  that  strip  of  Atlantic 
coast  to  Asia  and  the  Pacific,  who,  as  it  were,  sees  the 
shore  slope  upward  over  the  Alps  to  the  Himmaleh 
mountains,  the  comparatively  recent  literature  of 
Europe  often  appears  partial  and  clannish,  and,  not- 
withstanding the  limited  range  of  his  own  sympathies 
and  studies,  the  European  writer  who  presumes  that 
he  is  speaking  for  the  world,  is  perceived  by  him  to 
speak  only  for  that  corner  of  it  which  he  inhabits. 
One  of  the  rarest  of  England's  scholars  and  critics,  in 
his  classification  of  the  worthies  of  the  world,  betrays 
the  narrowness  of  his  European  culture  and  the 
exclusiveness  of  his  reading.  None  of  her  children 
has  done  justice  to  the  poets  and  philosophers  of 
Persia  or  of  India.  They  have  been  better  known  to 
her  merchant  scholars  than  to  her  poets  and  thinkers 
by  profession.  You  may  look  in  vain  through  English 
poetry  for  a  single  memorable  verse  inspired  by  these 
themes.  Nor  is  Germany  to  be  excepted,  though  her 
philological  industry  is  indirectly  serving  the  cause  of 
philosophy  and  poetry.  Even  Goethe,  one  would 
say,  wanted  that  universality  of  genius  which  could 
have  appreciated  thephilosophyof  India,  if  he  had  more 
nearly  approached  it.  His  genius  was  more  practical, 
dwelling  much  more  in  the  regions  of  the  understand- 
ing, and  less  native  to  contemplation,  than  the  genius 
of  those  sages.  It  is  remarkable  that  Homer  and  a 
few  Hebrews  are  the  most  oriental  names  which 
modern   Europe,  whose  literature  has  taken  its  rise 


140      A    IVEEK   ON   THE    COXCORD  RIVER. 

list  of  Worthies,  and  perhaps  the  worthiest  of  man- 
kind, and  the  fathers  of  modern  thinking,  —  for  the  con- 
templations of  those  Indian  sages  have  influenced  the 
intellectual  development  of  mankind, — whose  works 
even  yet  survive  in  wonderful  completeness,  are,  for 
the  most  part,  not  recognized  as  ever  having  existed. 
If  the  lions  had  been  the  painters  it  would  have  been 
otherwise.  In  every  one's  youthful  dreams  phi- 
losophy is  still  vaguely  but  inseparably,  and  with 
singular  truth,  associated  with  the  East,  nor  do  after 
years  discover  its  local  habitation  in  the  Western 
world.  In  comparison  with  the  philosophers  of  the 
East,  we  may  say  that  modern  Europe  has  yet  given 
birth  to  none.  Beside  the  vast  and  cosmogonal  phi- 
losophy of  the  Bhagvat-Geeta,  even  our  Shakspeare 
seems  sometimes  youthfully  green  and  practical 
merely.  Some  of  these  sublime  sentences,  as  the 
Chaldaean  oracles  of  Zoroaster,  for  instance,  still  sur- 
viving after  a  thousand  revolutions  and  translations, 
make  us  doubt  if  the  poetic  form  and  dress  are  not 
transitory,  and  not  essential  to  the  most  eifective  and 
enduring  expression  of  thought.  Ex  oriente  hixx^2.y 
still  be  the  motto  of  scholars,  for  the  Western  world 
has  not  yet  derived  from  the  East  all  the  light  which 
it  is  destined  to  receive  thence. 

It  would  be  worthy  of  the  age  to  print  together  the 
collected  Scriptures  or  Sacred  Writings  of  the  several 
nations,  the  Chinese,  the  Hindoos,  the  Persians,  the 
Hebrews,  and  others,  as  the  Scripture  of  mankind. 
The  New  Testament  is  still,  perhaps,  too  much  on 
the  lips  and  in  the  hearts  of  men  to  be  called  a  Scrip- 
ture in  this  sense.  Such  a  juxtaposition  and  compari- 
son might  help  to  liberalize  the  faith  of  men.  This 
IS  a  work  which  Time  will  surely  edit,  reserved   to 


MONDAY.  141 

crown  the  labors  of  the  printing  press.  This  would 
be  the  Bible,  or  Book  of  Books,  which  let  the  mission- 
aries carry  to  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth. 

While  engaged  in  these  reflections,  thinking  our- 
selves the  only  navigators  of  these  w^aters.  suddenly 
a  canal  boat,  with  its  sail  set.  glided  round  a  point 
before  us,  like  some  huge  river  beast,  and  changed 
the  scene  in  an  instant;  and  then  another  and  an- 
other glided  into  sight,  and  we  found  ourselves  in  the 
current  of  commerce  once  more.  So  we  threw  our 
rinds  into  the  water  for  the  fishes  to  nibble,  and  added 
our  breath  to  the  life  of  living  men.  Little  did  we 
think  in  the  distant  garden  in  which  we  had  planted 
the  seed  and  reared  this  fruit,  where  it  would  be  eaten. 
Our  melons  lay  at  home  on  the  sandy  bottom  of  the 
Merrimack,  and  our  potatoes  in  the  sun  and  water  at 
the  bottom  of  the  boat  looked  like  a  fruit  of  the  coun- 
try. Soon,  however,  we  were  delivered  from  this  fleet 
of  junks,  and  possessed  the  river  in  soHtude,  rowing 
steadily  upward  through  the  noon,  between  the  ter- 
ritories of  Nashua  on  the  one  hand,  and  Hudson, 
once  Nottingham,  on  the  other;  from  time  to  time 
scaring  up  a  king-fisher  or  a  summer  duck,  the  former 
flying  rather  by  vigorous  impulses,  than  by  steady  and 
patient  steering  with  that  short  rudder  of  his,  sound- 
ing his  rattle  along  the  fluvial  street. 

Ere  long  another  scow  hove  in  sight,  creeping  down 
the  river,  and  hailing  it,  we  attached  ourselves  to  its 
side,  and  floated  back  in  company,  chatting  with  the 
boatmen,  and  obtaining  a  draught  of  cooler  water 
from  their  jug.  They  appeared  to  be  green  hands 
from  far  among  the  hills,  who  had  taken  this  means 
to  get  to  the  seaboard,  and  see  the  world  ;  and  would 


142      --i    WEEK   OX    THE    COXCORD   RIVER. 

possibly  visit  the  Falkland  Isles,  and  the  China  seas, 
before  they  again  saw  the  waters  of  the  Merrimack, 
or  perchance,  not  return  this  way  forever.  They  had 
already  embarked  the  private  interests  of  the  lands- 
man in  the  larger  venture  of  the  race,  and  were  ready 
to  mess  with  mankind,  reserving  only  the  till  of  a 
chest  to  themselves.  But  they  too  were  soon  lost 
behind  a  point,  and  we  went  croaking  on  our  way 
alone.  What  grievance  has  its  root  among  the  New 
Hampshire  hills?  we  asked  ;  what  is  wanting  to  human 
life  here,  that  these  men  should  make  such  haste  to 
the  antipodes  ?  We  prayed  that  their  bright  anticipa- 
tions might  not  be  rudely  disappointed. 

Though  all  the  fates  should  prove  unkind, 
Leave  not  your  native  land  behind. 
The  ship,  becalmed,  at  length  stands  still; 
The  steed  must  rest  beneath  the  hill ; 
But  swiftly  still  our  fortunes  pace, 
To  find  us  out  in  every  place. 

The  vessel,  though  her  masts  be  firm, 
Beneath  her  copper  bears  a  worm  ; 
Around  the  cape,  across  the  line. 
Till  fields  of  ice  her  course  confine; 
It  matters  not  how  smooth  the  breeze, 
How  shallow  or  how  deep  the  seas, 
Whether  she  bears  Manilla  twine, 
Or  in  her  hold  Madeira  wine, 
Or  China  teas,  or  Spanish  hides. 
In  port  or  quarantine  she  rides; 
Far  from  New  England's  blustering  shore. 
New  England's  worm  her  hulk  shall  bore, 
And  sink  her  in  the  Indian  seas. 
Twine,  wine,  and  hides,  and  China  teas. 

We  passed  a  small  desert  here  on  the  east  bank, 
between  Tyngsboro"  and  Hudson,  which  was  interest- 


MONDAY.  143 

ing  and  even  refreshing  to  our  eyes  in  the  midst  of 
the  almost  universal  greenness.  This  sand  was  in- 
deed somewhat  impressive  and  beautiful  to  us.  A 
very  old  inhabitant,  who  was  at  work  in  a  field  on 
the  Nashua  side,  told  us  that  he  remembered  when 
corn  and  grain  grew  there,  and  it  was  a  cultivated 
field.  But  at  length  the  fishermen,  for  this  was  a 
fishing  place,  pulled  up  the  bushes  on  the  shore,  for 
greater  convenience  in  hauling  their  seines,  and  when 
the  bank  was  thus  broken,  the  wind  began  to  blow  up 
the  sand  from  the  shore,  until  at  length  it  had  covered 
about  fifteen  acres  several  feet  deep.  We  saw  near 
the  river,  where  the  sand  was  blown  off  down  to  some 
ancient  surface,  the  foundation  of  an  Indian  wigwam 
exposed,  a  perfect  circle  of  burnt  stones  four  or  five 
feet  in  diameter,  mingled  with  fine  charcoal  and  the 
bones  of  small  animals,  which  had  been  preserved  in 
the  sand.  The  surrounding  sand  was  sprinkled  with 
other  burnt  stones  on  which  their  fires  had  been  built, 
as  well  as  with  flakes  of  arrow-head  stone,  and  we  found 
one  perfect  arrow-head.  In  one  place  we  noticed 
where  an  Indian  had  sat  to  manufacture  arrow-heads 
out  of  quartz,  and  the  sand  was  sprinkled  with  a  quart 
of  small  glass-like  chips  about  as  big  as  a  fourpence, 
which  he  had  broken  off  in  his  work.  Here,  then, 
the  Indians  must  have  fished  before  the  whites  arrived. 
There  was  another  similar  sandy  tract  about  half  a 
mile  above  this. 

Still  the  noon  prevailed,  and  we  turned  the  prow 
aside  to  bathe,  and  recline  ourselves  under  some 
buttonwoods  by  a  ledge  of  rocks,  in  a  retired  pasture, 
sloping  to  the  water's  edge,  and  skirted  with  pines 
nnd  hazels,  in  the  town  of  Hudson.     Still  had  India, 


144      -^    WEEK   ON   THE    CONCORD    RIVER, 

and  that  old  noontide  philosophy,  the  better  part  of 
our  thoughts. 

It  is  always  singular,  but  encouraging,  to  meet  with 
common  sense  in  very  old  books,  as  the  Heetopades 
of  Veeshnoo  Sarma;  a  playful  wisdom  which  has 
eyes  behind  as  well  as  before,  and  oversees  itself. 
It  asserts  their  health  and  independence  of  the  expe- 
rience of  later  times.  This  pledge  of  sanity  cannot 
be  spared  in  a  book,  that  it  sometimes  pleasantly 
reflect  upon  itself.  The  story  and  fabulous  portion 
of  this  book  winds  loosely  from  sentence  to  sentence 
as  so  many  oases  in  a  desert,  and  is  as  indistinct  as  a 
camel's  track  between  Mourzouk  and  Darfour.  It  is 
a  comment  on  the  flow  and  freshet  of  modern  books. 
The  reader  leaps  from  sentence  to  sentence,  as  from 
one  stepping-stone  to  another,  while  the  stream  of  the 
story  rushes  past  unregarded.  The  Bhagvat-Geeta  is 
less  sententious  and  poetic,  perhaps,  but  still  more 
wonderfully  sustained  and  developed.  Its  sanity  and 
sublimity  have  impressed  the  minds  even  of  soldiers 
and  merchants.  It  is  the  characteristic  of  great  poems 
that  they  will  yield  of  their  sense  in  due  proportion  to 
the  hasty  and  the  deliberate  reader.  To  the  practical 
they  will  be  common  sense,  and  to  the  wise  wisdom  : 
as  either  the  traveller  may  wet  his  lips,  or  an  army 
may  fill  its  water  casks  at  a  full  stream. 

One  of  the  most  attractive  of  those  ancient  books 
that  I  have  met  with  is  the  Laws  of  Menu.  Accord- 
ing to  Sir  William  Jones,  *'  V^yasa,  the  son  of  Parasara. 
has  decided  that  the  Veda,  with  its  Angas,  or  the  six 
compositions  deduced  from  it,  the  revealed  system  of 
medicine,  the  Puranas.  or  sacred  histories,  and  the 
code  of  Menu,  were  four  works  of  supreme  authority, 
which  ought  never  to  be  shaken  by  arguments  merely 


MONDAY.  145 

human."  The  last  is  believed  by  the  Hindoos  "'to 
have  been  promulgated  in  the  beginning  of  time,  by 
.Menu,  son  or  grandson  of  Brahma,"  and  ''first  of 
created  beings  "  :  and  Bralima  is  said  to  have  '*  taught 
his  laws  to  Menu  in  a  hundred  thousand  verses,  which 
.Menu  explained  to  the  primitive  world  in  the  very 
words  of  the  book  now^  translated.""  Others  affirm 
that  they  have  undergone  successive  abridgments  for 
the  convenience  of  mortals,  "  while  the  gods  of  the 
lower  heaven,  and  the  band  of  celestial  musicians,  are 
engaged  in  studying  the  primary  code."  —  "A  num- 
ber of  glosses  or  comments  on  Menu  were  composed 
by  the  Munis,  or  old  philosophers,  whose  treatises, 
together  with  that  before  us,  constitute  the  Dherma 
Sastra,  in  a  collective  sense,  or  Body  of  Law."  Cul- 
luca  Bhatta  was  one  of  the  more  modern  of  these. 

Every  sacred  book,  successively,  seems  to  have 
been  accepted  in  the  faith  that  it  was  to  be  the  final 
resting-place  of  the  sojourning  soul ;  but  after  all,  it 
is  but  a  caravansary  which  supplies  refreshment  to 
the  traveller,  and  directs  him  farther  on  his  way  to 
Isphahan  or  Bagdat.  Thank  God,  no  Hindoo  tyr- 
anny prevailed  at  the  framing  of  the  world,  but  we 
are  freemen  of  the  universe,  and  not  sentenced  to 
any  caste. 

I  know  of  no  book  which  has  come  down  to  us  with 
grander  pretensions  than  this,  and  it  is  so  impersonal 
and  sincere  that  it  is  never  offensive  nor  ridiculous. 
Compare  the  modes  in  which  modern  literature  is 
advertised  with  the  prospectus  of  this  book,  and  think 
what  a  reading  public  it  addresses,  what  criticism  it 
c.x'pects.  It  seems  to  have  been  uttered  from  some 
eastern  summit,  with  a  sober  morning  prescience  in 
the  dawn  of  time,  and  you  cannot  read  a  sentence 


146      A    WEEK   ON   THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

without  being  elevated  as  upon  the  table-land  of  the 
Ghauts.  It  has  such  a  rhythm  as  the  winds  of  the 
desert,  such  a  tide  as  the  Ganges,  and  is  as  supe- 
rior to  criticism  as  the  Himmaleh  mountains.  Its 
tone  is  of  such  unrelaxed  fibre,  that  even  at  this  late 
day,  unworn  by  time,  it  wears  the  English  and  the 
Sanscrit  dress  indifferently,  and  its  fixed  sentences 
keep  up  their  distant  fires  still  like  the  stars,  by  whose 
dissipated  rays  this  lower  world  is  illumined.  The 
whole  book  by  noble  gestures  and  inclinations  seems 
to  render  many  words  unnecessary.  English  sense 
has  toiled,  but  Hindoo  wisdom  never  perspired.  The 
sentences  open,  as  we  read  them,  unexpensively,  and, 
at  first,  almost  unmeaningly,  as  the  petals  of  a  flower, 
yet  they  sometimes  startle  us  with  that  rare  kind  of 
wisdom  which  could  only  have  been  learned  from  the 
most  trivial  experience  :  but  it  comes  to  us  as  refined 
as  the  porcelain  earth  which  subsides  to  the  bottom  of 
the  ocean.  They  are  clean  and  dry  as  fossil  truths, 
which  have  been  exposed  to  the  elements  for  thou- 
sands of  years,  so  impersonally  and  scientifically  true 
that  they  are  the  ornament  of  the  parlor  and  the  cabi- 
net. Any  moral  philosophy  is  exceedingly  rare. 
This  of  Menu  addresses  our  privacy  more  than  most. 
It  is  a  more  private  and  familiar,  and,  at  the  same 
time,  a  more  public  and  universal  word  than  is  spoken 
in  parlor  or  pulpit  now-a-days.  As  our  domestic 
fowls  are  said  to  have  their  original  in  the  wild  pheas- 
ant of  India,  so  our  domestic  thoughts  have  their  pro- 
totypes in  the  thoughts  of  her  philosophers.  We 
seem  to  be  dabbling  in  the  very  elements  of  our  pres- 
ent conventional  and  actual  life  :  as  if  it  were  the  pri- 
meval conventicle  where  how  to  eat  and  to  drink  and 
to  sleep,  and  maintain  life  with  adequate  dignity  and 


MO  NBA  V.  147 

sincerity,  were  the  questions  to  be  decided.  It  is 
later  and  more  intimate  even  than  the  advice  of  our 
nearest  friends.  And  yet  it  is  true  for  the  widest 
horizon,  and  read  out  of  doors  has  relation  to  the  dim 
mountain  line,  and  is  native  and  aboriginal  there. 
Most  books  belong  to  the  house  and  street  only,  and 
in  the  fields  their  leaves  feel  very  thin.  They  are 
bare  and  obvious,  and  have  no  halo  nor  haze  about 
them.  Nature  lies  far  and  fair  behind  them  all.  But 
this,  as  it  proceeds  from,  so  does  it  address  what  is 
deepest  and  most  abiding  in  man.  It  belongs  to  the 
noontide  of  the  day,  the  midsummer  of  the  year,  and 
after  the  snows  have  melted,  and  the  waters  evapo- 
rated in  the  spring,  still  its  truth  speaks  freshly  to  our 
experience.  It  helps  the  sun  to  shine,  and  his  rays 
fall  on  its  page  to  illustrate  it.  It  spends  the  morn- 
ings and  the  evenings,  and  makes  such  an  impression 
on  us  over  night  as  to  awaken  us  before  dawn,  and  its 
influence  lingers  around  us  like  a  fragrance  late  into 
the  day.  It  conveys  a  new  gloss  to  the  meadows  and 
the  depths  of  the  wood.  Its  spirit,  like  a  more  sub- 
tile ether,  sweeps  along  with  the  prevailing  winds  of 
a  country,  and  the  very  locusts  and  crickets  of  a  sum- 
mer day  are  but  later  or  earlier  glosses  on  the  Dherma 
Sastra  of  the  Hindoos,  a  continuation  of  the  sacred 
code.  As  we  have  said,  there  is  an  orientalism  in 
the  most  restless  pioneer,  and  the  farthest  west  is  but 
the  farthest  east.  This  fair  modern  world  is  only  a 
reprint  of  the  Laws  of  Menu  with  the  gloss  of  Cul- 
luca.  Tried  by  a  New  England  eye,  or  the  mere 
practical  wisdom  of  modern  times,  they  are  the  ora- 
cles of  a  race  already  in  its  dotage,  but  held  up  to  the 
sky,  which  is  the  only  impartial  and  incorruptible 
ordeal,  they  are  of  a  piece  with  its  depth  and  serenity, 


148      A    WEEK   ON   THE   CONCORD  RIVER. 

and  I  am  assured  that  they  will  have  a  place  and  sig- 
nificance as  long  as  there  is  a  sk}-  to  test  them  by. 

Give  me  a  sentence  which  no  intelligence  can  under- 
stand. There  must  be  a  kind  of  life  and  palpitation 
to  it,  and  under  its  words  a  kind  of  blood  must  circu- 
late forever.  It  is  wonderful  that  this  sound  should 
have  come  down  to  us  from  so  far.  when  the  voice  of 
man  can  be  heard  so  little  way,  and  we  are  not  now 
within  ear-shot  of  any  contemporary.  The  wood- 
cutters have  here  felled  an  ancient  pine  forest,  and 
brought  to  light  to  these  distant  hills  a  fair  lake  in 
the  south-west :  and  now  in  an  instant  it  is  distinctly 
shown  to  these  woods  as  if  its  image  had  travelled 
liither  from  eternity.  Perhaps  these  old  stumps  upon 
the  knoll  remember  when  anciently  this  lake  gleamed 
in  the  horizon.  One  wonders  if  the  bare  earth  itself 
did  not  experience  emotion  at  beholding  again  so  fair 
a  prospect.  That  fair  water  lies  there  in  the  sun  thus 
revealed,  so  much  the  prouder  and  fairer  because  its 
beauty  needed  not  to  be  seen.  It  seems  yet  lonely, 
sufficient  to  itself,  and  superior  to  observation. — So 
are  these  old  sentences  like  serene  lakes  in  the  south- 
west, at  length  revealed  to  us,  which  have  so  long 
})een  reflecting  our  own  sky  in  their  bosom. 

The  great  plain  of  India  lies  as  in  a  cup  between 
the  Himmaleh  and  the  ocean  on  the  north  and  south, 
and  the  Brahmapootra  and  Indus,  on  the  east  and 
west,  wherein  the  primeval  race  was  received.  We 
will  not  dispute  the  story.  We  are  pleased  to  read  in 
the  natural  history  of  the  country,  of  the  ''pine,  larch, 
spruce,  and  silver  fir,"'  which  cover  the  southern  face 
of  the  Himmaleh  range ;  of  the  "  gooseberrv'.  rasp- 
berry, strawberry,"  which  from  an  imminent  temperate 
zone  overlook  the  torrid  plains.     So  did  this  active 


MOiVBAY.  149 

modern  life  have  even  then  a  foothold  and  lurking 
place  in  the  midst  of  the  stateliness  and  contempla- 
liveness  of  those  eastern  plains.  In  another  era  the 
••  lily-of-the-valley,  cowslip,  dandelion,"  were  to  work 
their  way  down  into  the  plain,  and  bloom  in  a  level 
zone  of  their  own  reaching  round  the  earth.  Already 
has  the  era  of  the  temperate  zone  arrived,  the  era  of 
the  pine  and  the  oak,  for  the  palm  and  the  banian  do 
not  supply  the  wants  of  this  age.  The  lichens  on 
the  summits  of  the  rocks  will  perchance  find  their 
level  ere  long. 

As  for  the  tenets  of  the  Brahmans,  we  are  not  so 
much  concerned  to  know  what  doctrines  they  held,  as 
that  they  were  held  by  any.  We  can  tolerate  all 
■philosophies,  Atomists,  Pneumatologists,  Atheists, 
Theists,  —  Plato,  Aristotle,  Leucippus,  Democritus. 
Pythagorus,  Zoroaster,  and  Confucius.  It  is  the  atti- 
tude of  these  men,  more  than  any  communication 
which  they  make,  that  attracts  us.  Between  these 
and  their  commentators,  it  is  true,  there  is  an  endless 
dispute.  But  if  it  comes  to  this  that  you  compare 
notes,  then  you  are  all  wrong.  As  it  is,  each  takes  us 
up  into  the  serene  heavens,  whither  the  smallest 
bubble  rises  as  surely  as  the  largest,  and  paints  earth 
and  sky  for  us.  Any  sincere  thought  is  irresistible. 
The  very  austerity  of  the  Brahmans  is  tempting  to 
the  devotional  soul,  as  a  more  refined  and  nobler 
luxury.  Wants  so  easily  and  gracefully  satisfied 
seem  like  a  more  refined  pleasure.  Their  conception 
of  creation  is  peaceful  as  a  dream.  ''When  that 
power  awakes,  then  has  this  world  its  full  expansion  ; 
but  when  he  slumbers  with  a  tranquil  spirit,  then  the 
whole  system  fades  away."  In  the  very  indistinct- 
ness of  their  theogony  a  sublime  truth  is  implied.     It 


I50      .-1    WEEK   ON   THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

hardly  allows  the  reader  to  rest  in  any  supreme  first 
cause,  but  directly  it  hints  at  a  supremer  still  which 
created  the  last,  and  the  Creator  is  still  behind 
increate. 

Nor  will  we  disturb  the  antiquity  of  this  Scripture ; 
••  From  tire,  from  air,  and  from  the  sun,"'  it  was 
••  milked  out."'  One  might  as  well  investigate  the 
chronology  of  light  and  heat.  Let  the  sun  shine. 
Menu  understood  this  matter  best,  when  he  said, 
"  Those  best  know  the  divisions  of  days  and  nights 
who  understand  that  the  day  of  Brahma,  which 
endures  to  the  end  of  a  thousand  such  ages,  [infinite 
ages,  nevertheless,  according  to  mortal  reckoning,] 
gives  rise  to  virtuous  exertions :  and  that  his  night 
endures  as  long  as  his  day."*  Indeed,  the  Mussulman 
and  Tartar  dynasties  are  beyond  all  dating.  Methinks 
I  have  lived  under  them  myself.  In  every  man's 
brain  is  the  Sanscrit.  The  Vedas  and  their  Angas 
are  not  so  ancient  as  serene  contemplation.  Why 
will  we  be  imposed  on  by  antiquity  t  Is  the  babe 
young?  When  I  behold  it,  it  seems  more  vener- 
able than  the  oldest  man ;  it  is  more  ancient 
than  Nestor  or  the  Sibyls,  and  bears  the  wrinkles 
of  father  Saturn  himself.  And  do  we  live  but  in 
the  present  ?  How  broad  a  line  is  that  ?  I  sit 
now  on  a  stump  whose  rings  number  centuries  of 
growth.  If  I  look  around  I  see  that  the  soil  is 
composed  of  the  remains  of  just  such  stumps,  ances- 
tors to  this.  The  earth  is  covered  with  mould.  I 
thrust  this  stick  many  aeons  deep  into  its  surface, 
and  with  my  heel  make  a  deeper  furrow  than  the 
elements  have  ploughed  here  for  a  thousand  years. 
If  I  listen,  I  hear  the  peep  of  frogs  which  is  older 
than  the  shme  of  Egypt,  and  the  distant  drumming  of 


MONDA  V.  151 

a  partridge  on  a  log,  as  if  it  were  the  pulse-beat  of  the 
summer  air.  I  raise  my  fairest  and  freshest  flowers 
in  the  old  mould.  Why,  what  we  would  fain  call 
new  is  not  skin  deep  ;  the  earth  is  not  yet  stained  by  it. 
It  is  not  the  fertile  ground  which  we  walk  on,  but  the 
leaves  that  flutter  over  our  heads.  The  newest  is 
but  the  oldest  made  visible  to  our  senses.  When 
we  dig  up  the  soil  from  a  thousand  feet  below  the 
surface,  we  call  it  new,  and  the  plants  which  spring 
from  it ;  and  when  our  vision  pierces  deeper  into 
space,  and  detects  a  remoter  star,  we  call  that  new 
also.  The  place  where  we  sit  is  called  Hudson, — 
once  it  was  Nottingham,  —  once  — 

W"e  should  read  history  as-  little  critically  as  we 
consider  the  landscape,  and  be  more  interested  by 
the  atmospheric  tints  and  various  lights  and  shades 
which  the  intervening  spaces  create,  than  by  its 
groundwork  and  composition.  It  is  the  morning 
now  turned  evening  and  seen  in  the  west,  —  the  same 
sun,  but  a  new  light  and  atmosphere.  Its  beauty  is 
like  the  sunset ;  not  a  fresco  painting  on  a  wall,  flat 
and  bounded,  but  atmospheric  and  roving  or  free. 
In  reality,  history  fluctuates  as  the  face  of  the  land- 
scape from  morning  to  evening.  What  is  of  moment 
is  its  hue  and  color.  Time  hides  no  treasures ;  we 
want  not  its  ///<?;/,  but  its  now.  We  do  not  complain 
that  the  mountains  in  the  horizon  are  blue  and  indis- 
tinct ;  they  are  the  more  like  the  heavens. 

Of  what  moment  are  facts  that  can  be  lost, — 
which  need  to  be  commemorated?  The  monument 
of  death  will  outlast  the  memory  of  the  dead.  The 
pyramids  do  not  tell  us  the  tale  that  was  confided  to 
them  :    the  living  fact  commemorates  itself.       Why 


152      A    WEEK  OX   THE    CONCORD   RIVEN. 

look  in  the  dark  for  light?  Strictly  speaking,  the 
historical  societies  have  not  recovered  one  fact  from 
oblivion,  but  are  themselves,  instead  of  the  fact,  that 
is  lost.  The  researcher  is  more  memorable  than  the 
researched.  The  crowd  stood  admiring  the  mist  and 
the  dim  outlines  of  the  trees  seen  through  it,  when 
one  of  their  number  advanced  to  explore  the  phenome- 
non, and  with  fresh  admiration  all  eyes  were  turned 
on  his  dimly  retreating  figure.  It  is  astonishing  with 
how  little  cooperation  of  the  societies,  the  past  is 
remembered.  Its  story  has  indeed  had  another 
muse  than  has  been  assigned  it.  There  is  a  good 
instance  of  the  manner  in  which  all  history  began,  in 
Alwdkidis"  Arabian  Chronicle,  "I  was  informed  by 
Ahmed  Abnatin  Aljorhanii,  who  had  it  from  Rephda 
Ebn  Kais  Aldniiri^  who  had  it  from  Saiph  Ebn 
Fabalah  Alchdtquanni^  who  had  it  from  Thabet  Ebn 
Alkaniah.  who  said  he  was  present  at  the  action.'' 
These  fathers  of  history  were  not  anxious  to  preserve, 
but  to  learn  the  fact ;  and  hence  it  was  not  forgotten. 
Critical  acumen  is  exerted  in  vain  to  uncover  the 
past;  \\\^  past  cannot  h^  presented',  we  cannot  know 
what  we  are  not.  But  one  veil  hangs  over  past,  present, 
and  future,  and  it  is  the  province  of  the  historian  to 
find  out,  not  what  was,  but  what  is.  Where  a  battle  has 
been  fought,  you  will  find  nothing  but  the  bones  of  men 
and  beasts  :  where  a  battle  is  being  fought,  there  are 
hearts  beating.  We  will  sit  on  a  mound  and  muse, 
and  not  try  to  make  these  skeletons  stand  on  their  legs 
again.  Does  Nature  remember,  think  you,  that  they 
luere  men,  or  not  rather  that  they  are  bones? 

Ancient  history  has  an  air  of  antiquity.  It  should 
be  more  modern.  It  is  written  as  if  the  spectator 
should  be  thinking  of  the  backside  of  the  picture  on 


MONDA  Y.  153 

the  wall,  or  as  if  the  author  expected  that  the  dead 
would  be  his  readers,  and  wished  to  detail  to  them 
their  own  experience.  Men  seem  anxious  to  accom- 
plish an  orderly  retreat  through  the  centuries,  ear- 
nestly rebuilding  the  works  behind,  as  they  are  battered 
down  by  the  encroachments  of  time ;  but  while  they 
loiter,  they  and  their  works  both  fall  a  prey  to  the 
arch  enemy.  History  has  neither  the  venerableness 
of  antiquity,  nor  the  freshness  of  the  modern.  It 
does  as  if  it  would  go  to  the  beginning  of  things, 
which  natural  history  might  with  reason  assume  to 
do ;  but  consider  the  Universal  History,  and  then  tell 
us  —  when  did  burdock  and  plantain  sprout  first?  It 
has  been  so  written  for  the  most  part,  that  the  times 
it  describes  are  with  remarkable  propriety  called  dar/c 
ages.  They  are  dark,  as  one  has  observed,  because 
we  are  so  in  the  dark  about  them.  The  sun  rarely 
shines  in  history,  what  with  the  dust  and  confusion  ; 
and  when  we  meet  with  any  cheering  fact  which 
implies  the  presence  of  this  luminary,  we  excerpt  and 
modernize  it.  As  when  we  read  in  the  history  of  the 
Saxons  that  Edwin  of  Northumbria  '"'caused  stakes  to 
be  fixed  in  the  highways  where  he  had  seen  a  clear 
spring,"  and  "brazen  dishes  were  chained  to  them,  to 
refresh  the  weary  sojourner,  whose  fatigues  Edwin 
had  himself  experienced."'  This  is  worth  all  Arthur's 
twelve  battles. 

"  Through  the  shadow  of  the  world  we  sweep  into  the  younger 
day : 
Better  fifty  years  of  Europe  than  a  cycle  of  Cathay." 
Than  fifty  years  of  Europe  better  one  New  England  ray  ! 

Biography,  too,  is  liable  to  the  same  objection  ;  it 
should  be  autobiography.     Let  us  not,  as  the  Ger- 


154      -^    WEEK   OX   THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

mans  advise,  endeavor  to  go  abroad  and  vex  our 
bowels  that  we  may  be  somebody  else  to  explain 
him.     If  I  am  not  I,  who  will  be  ? 

But  it  is  fit  that  the  Past  should  be  dark :  though 
the  darkness  is  not  so  much  a  quality  of  the  past  as 
of  tradition.  It  is  not  a  distance  of  time,  but  a  dis- 
tance of  relation,  which  makes  thus  dusky  its  me- 
morials. What  is  near  to  the  heart  of  this  generation 
is  fair  and  bright  still.  Greece  lies  outspread  fair 
and  sunshiny  in  floods  of  light,  for  there  is  the  sun 
and  daylight  in  her  literature  and  art.  Homer  does 
not  allow  us  to  forget  that  the  sun  shone,  —  nor 
Phidias,  nor  the  Parthenon.  Yet  no  era  has  been 
wholly  dark,  nor  will  we  too  hastily  submit  to  the 
historian,  and  congratulate  ourselves  on  a  blaze  of 
light.  If  we  could  pierce  the  obscurity  of  those  re- 
mote years,  we  should  find  it  light  enough  ;  only  tho'c 
is  not  our  day.  Some  creatures  are  made  to  see  in 
the  dark.  There  has  always  been  the  same  amount 
of  light  in  the  world.  The  new  and  missing  stars, 
the  comets  and  eclipses,  do  not  affect  the  general 
illumination,  for  only  our  glasses  appreciate  them. 
The  eyes  of  the  oldest  fossil  remains,  they  tell  us, 
indicate  that  the  same  laws  of  light  prevailed  then  as 
now.  Always  the  laws  of  light  are  the  same,  but  the 
modes  and  degrees  of  seeing  vary.  The  gods  are 
partial  to  no  era,  but  steadily  shines  their  light  in  the 
heavens,  while  the  eye  of  the  beholder  is  turned  to 
stone.  There  was  but  the  sun  and  the  eye  from  the 
first.  The  ages  have  not  added  a  new  ray  to  the  one, 
nor  altered  a  fibre  of  the  other. 

If  we  will  admit  time  into  our  thoughts  at  all,  the 
mythologies,  those  vestiges  of  ancient  poems,  wrecks 
of  poems,  so  to  speak,  the  world's  inheritance,  still 


MONDAY.  155 

reflecting  some  of  their  original  splendor,  like  the 
fragments  of  clouds  tinted  by  the  rays  of  the  departed 
sun  ;  reaching  into  the  latest  summer  day,  and  allying 
this  hour  to  the  morning  of  creation ;  as  the  poet 
sings :  — 

"  Fragments  of  the  lofty  strain 
Float  down  the  tide  of  years, 
As  buo)'ant  on  the  stormy  main 
A  parted  wreck  appears ;  "  — 

these  are  the  materials  and  hints  for  a  history  of  the 
rise  and  progress  of  the  race ;  how.  from  the  condi- 
tion of  ants,  it  arrived  at  the  condition  of  men,  and 
arts  were  gradually  invented.  Let  a  thousand  sur- 
mises shed  some  light  on  this  story.  We  will  not  be 
confined  by  historical,  even  geological  periods,  which 
would  allow  us  to  doubt  of  a  progress  in  human 
aifairs.  If  we  rise  above  this  wisdom  for  the  day,  we 
shall  expect  that  this  morning  of  the  race,  in  which 
it  has  been  supplied  with  the  simplest  necessaries, 
with  corn,  and  wine,  and  honey,  and  oil,  and  fire,  and 
articulate  speech,  and  agricultural  and  other  arts, 
reared  up,  by  degrees,  from  the  condition  of  ants,  to 
men,  will  be  succeeded  by  a  day  of  equally  progres- 
sive splendor;  that,  in  the  lapse  of  the  divine  periods, 
other  divine  agents  and  godlike  men  will  assist  to 
elevate  the  race  as  much  above  its  present  condition. 
But  we  do  not  know  much  about  it. 

Thus  did  one  voyageur  waking  dream,  while  his 
companion  slumbered  on  the  bank.  Suddenly,  a 
boatman's  horn  was  heard,  echoing  from  shore  to 
shore,  to  give  notice  of  his  approach  to  the  farmer's 
wife,  with  whom  he  was  to  take  his  dinner,  though  in 


156      ./    WEEK   OX   THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

that  place  only  muskrats  and  king-fishers  seemed  to 
hear.  The  current  of  our  reflections  and  our  slum- 
bers being  thus  disturbed,  we  weighed  anchor  once 
more. 

As  we  proceeded  on  our  way  in  the  afternoon,  the 
western  bank  became  lower,  or  receded  further  from 
the  channel  in  some  places,  leaving  a  few  trees  only 
to  fringe  the  water's  edge ;  while  the  eastern  rose  ab- 
ruptly here  and  there  into  wooded  hills  fifty  or  sixty 
feet  high.  The  bass,  tilia  Americana^  also  called 
the  lime  or  linden,  which  was  a  new  tree  to  us,  over- 
hung the  water  with  its  broad  and  rounded  leaf,  inter- 
spersed with  clusters  of  small  hard  berries,  now  nearly 
ripe,  and  made  an  agreeable  shade  for  us  sailors. 
The  inner  bark  of  this  genus  is  the  bast,  the  material 
of  the  fisherman's  matting,  and  the  ropes,  and  peas- 
ant's shoes,  of  which  the  Russians  make  so  much  use, 
and  also  of  nets  and  a  coarse  cloth  in  some  places. 
According  to  poets,  this  was  once  Philyra,  one  of  the 
Oceanides.  The  ancients  are  said  to  have  used  its 
bark  for  the  roofs  of  cottages,  for  baskets,  and  for  a 
kind  of  paper  called  Philyra.  They  also  made'  buck- 
lers of  its  wood,  "  on  account  of  its  flexibility,  light- 
ness, and  resiliency."  It  was  once  much  used  for 
carving,  and  is  still  in  demand  for  panels  of  carriages, 
and  for  various  uses  for  which  toughness  and  flexibil- 
ity are  required.  Its  sap  affords  sugar,  and  the  honey 
made  from  its  flowers  is  said  to  be  preferred  to  any 
other.  Its  leaves  are  in  some  countries  given  to 
cattle,  a  kind  of  chocolate  has  been  made  of  its  fruit, 
a  medicine  has  been  prepared  from  an  infusion  of  its 
flowers,  and  finally,  the  charcoal  made  of  its  wood  is 
greatly  valued  for  gunpowder. 

The    siirln  of  this  tree  reminded  us  that  we  had 


MONDAY.  157 

reached  a  strange  land  to  us.  As  we  sailed  under 
this  canopy  of  leaves  we  saw  the  sky  through  its 
chinks,  and,  as  it  were,  the  meaning  and  idea  of  the 
tree  stamped  in  a  thousand  hieroglyphics  on  the 
heavens.  The  universe  is  so  aptly  fitted  to  our  organ- 
ization, that  the  eye  wanders  and  reposes  at  the  same 
time.  On  every  side  there  is  something  to  soothe 
and  refresh  this  sense.  Look  up  at  the  tree-tops  and 
see  how  finely  Nature  finishes  off"  her  work  there.  See 
how  the  pines  spire  without  end  higher  and  higher, 
and  make  a  graceful  fringe  to  the  earth.  And  who 
shall  count  the  finer  cobwebs  that  soar  and  float  away 
from  their  utmost  tops,  and  the  myriad  insects  that 
dodge  between  them.  Leaves  are  of  more  various 
forms  than  the  alphabets  of  all  languages  put  together  ; 
of  the  oaks  alone  there  are  hardly  two  alike,  and  each 
expresses  its  own  character. 

In  all  her  products  Nature  only  develops  her  sim- 
plest germs.  One  would  say  that  it  was  no  great 
stretch  of  invention  to  create  birds.  The  hawk,  which 
now  takes  his  flight  over  the  top  of  the  wood,  was  at 
first  perchance  only  a  leaf  which  fluttered  in  its 
aisles.  From  rustling  leaves  she  came  in  the  course 
of  ages  to  the  loftier  flight  and  clear  carol  of  the 
bird. 

Salmon  Brook  comes  in  from  the  west  under  the 
railroad,  a  mile  and  a  half  below  the  village  of  Nashua. 
We  rode  up  far  enough  into  the  meadows  which  bor- 
der it,  to  learn  its  piscatorial  history  from  a  hay-maker 
on  its  banks.  He  told  us  that  the  silver  eel  was 
formerly  abundant  here,  and  pointed  to  some  sunken 
creels  at  its  mouth.  This  man's  memory  and  imagin- 
ation were  fertile  in  fishermen's  tales  of  floating  isles 
in  bottomless  ponds,  and  of  lakes  mysteriously  stocked 


158      .-/    WEEK   OX   THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

with  fishes,  and  would  have  kept  us  till  night-fall  to 
listen,  but  we  could  not  afford  to  loiter  in  this  road- 
stead, and  so  stood  out  to  our  sea  again.  Though  we 
never  trod  in  these  meadows,  but  only  touched  their 
margin  with  our  hands,  we  still  retain  a  pleasant 
memory  of  them. 

Salmon  Brook,  whose  name  is  said  to  be  a  transla- 
tion from  the  Indian,  was  a  favorite  haunt  of  the 
aborigines.  Here  too  the  first  white  settlers  of  Nashua 
planted,  and  some  dents  in  the  earth,  where  their 
houses  stood,  and  the  wrecks  of  ancient  apple  trees, 
are  still  visible.  About  one  mile  up  this  stream  stood 
the  house  of  old  John  Lovewell,  who  was  an  ensign 
in  the  army  of  Oliver  Cromwell,  and  the  father  of 
"  famous  Captain  Lovewell."  He  settled  here  before 
1690,  and  died  about  1754,  at  the  age  of  one  hundred 
and  twenty  years.  He  is  thought  to  have  been 
engaged  in  the  famous  Narragansett  swamp  fight, 
which  took  place  in  1675,  before  he  came  here.  The 
Indians  are  said  to  have  spared  him  in  succeeding  wars 
on  account  of  his  kindness  to  them.  Even  in  1700  he 
was  so  old  and  gray-headed  that  his  scalp  was  worth 
nothing,  since  the  French  Governor  oflfered  no  bounty 
for  such.  I  have  stood  in  the  dent  of  his  cellar  on 
the  bank  of  the  brook,  and  talked  there  with  one 
whose  grandfather  had,  whose  father  might  have, 
talked  with  Lovewell.  Here  also  he  had  a  mill  in  his 
old  age,  and  kept  a  small  store.  He  was  remembered 
by  some  who  were  recently  living,  as  a  hale  old  man 
w^ho  drove  the  boys  out  of  his  orchard  with  his  cane. 
—  Consider  the  triumphs  of  the  mortal  man,  and  what 
poor  trophies  it  would  have  to  show,  to  wit.  He  cob- 
bled shoes  without  glasses  at  a  hundred,  and  cut  a 
handsome  swathe  at  a  hundred  and  five  I  —  Lovewell's 


MONDA  Y.  I  59 

house  is  said  to  have  been  the  first  which  Mrs.  Dus- 
tin  reached  on  her  escape  from  the  Indians.  Here 
probably  the  hero  of  Pequawket  was  born  and  bred. 
Close  by  may  be  seen  the  cellar  and  the  gravestone 
of  Joseph  Hassell,  who,  as  was  elsewhere  recorded, 
with  his  wife  Anna  and  son  Benjamin,  and  Mary 
Marks,  "'  were  slain  by  our  Indian  enemies  on  Sept. 
2d  [1691]  in  the  evening.''  As  Gookin  observed  on 
a  previous  occasion,  "The  Indian  rod  upon  the  Eng- 
lish backs  had  not  yet  done  God's  errand."  Salmon 
Brook  near  its  mouth  is  still  a  solitary  stream,  mean- 
dering through  woods  and  meadows,  while  the  then 
uninhabited  mouth  of  the  Nashua  now  resounds  with 
the  din  of  a  manufacturing  town. 

A  stream  from  Otternic  pond  in  Hudson  comes  in  just 
above  Salmon  Brook,  on  the  opposite  side.  There 
was  a  good  view  of  Uncannunuc,  the  most  conspicu- 
ous mountain  in  these  parts,  from  the  bank  here, 
seen  rising  over  the  west  end  of  the  bridge  above.  We 
soon  after  passed  the  village  of  Nashua,  on  the  river  of 
the  same  name,  where  there  is  a  covered  bridge  over  the 
Merrimack.  The  Nashua,  which  is  one  of  the  largest 
tributaries,  flows  from  Wachusett  mountain,  through 
Lancaster,  Groton,  and  other  towns,  where  it  has 
formed  well-known  elm-shaded  meadows,  but  near  its 
mouth  it  is  obstructed  by  falls  and  factories,  and  did 
not  tempt  us  to  explore  it. 

Far  away  from  here,  in  Lancaster,  with  another 
companion,  I  have  crossed  the  broad  valley  of  the 
Nashua,  over  which  we  had  so  long  looked  westward 
from  the  Concord  hills  without  seeing  it  to  the  blue 
mountains  in  the  horizon.  So  many  streams,  so  many 
meadow^s  and  woods  and  quiet  dwellings  of  men  had 
lain    concealed    between    us    and    tliose    Delectable 


l60      -V    WEEK   ON   THE    COXCOKD   RIVER. 

Mountains  :  —  from  yonder  hill  on  the  road  to  Tyngs- 
boro*  you  may  get  a  good  view  of  them.  —  There 
where  it  seemed  uninterrupted  forest  to  our  youthful 
eyes,  between  two  neighboring  pines  in  the  horizon, 
lay  the  valley  of  the  Nashua,  and  this  very  stream  was 
even  then  winding  at  its  bottom,  and  then,  as  now. 
it  was  here  silently  mingling  its  waters  with  the  Merri- 
mack. The  clouds  which  floated  over  its  meadows 
and  were  born  there,  seen  far  in  the  west,  gilded  by 
the  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  had  adorned  a  thousand 
evening  skies  for  us.  But  as  it  were  by  a  turf  wall 
this  valley  was  concealed,  and  in  our  journey  to  those 
hills  it  was  first  gradually  revealed  to  us.  Summer 
and  winter  our  eyes  had  rested  on  the  dim  outline  of 
the  mountains,  to  which  distance  and  indistinctness 
lent  a  grandeur  not  their  own,  so  that  they  served  to 
interpret  all  the  allusions  of  poets  and  travellers. 
Standing  on  the  Concord  Cliffs  we  thus  spoke  our 
mind  to  them  :  — 

With  frontier  strength  ye  stand  \our  giound, 

With  grand  content  ye  circle  round, 

Tumultous  silence  for  all  sound, 

Ye  distant  nursery  of  rills, 

Monadnock  and  the  Peterboro'  hills ;  — 

Firm  argument  that  never  stirs, 

Outcircling  the  philosophers, — 

Like  some  vast  fleet, 

Sailing  through  rain  and  sleet. 

Through  winter's  cold  and  summer's  heat; 

Still  holding  on  upon  your  high  emprise. 

Until  ye  find  a  shore  amid  the  skies; 

Not  skulking  close  to  land, 

With  cargo  contraband, 

For  they  who  sent  a  venture  out  by  ye 

Have  set  the  Sun  to  see 

Their  honesty. 


MONDAY.  l6l 


Ships  of  the  line,  each  one, 

Ye  westward  run, 

Convoying  clouds, 

Which  cluster  in  your  shrouds, 

Always  before  the  gale, 

Under  a  press  of  sail. 

With  weight  of  metal  all  untold,  — 

I  seem  to  feel  ye  in  my  firm  seat  here, 

Immeasurable  depth  of  hold, 

And  breadth  of  beam,  and  length  of  running  gear. 

Methinks  ye  take  luxurious  pleasure 

In  your  novel  western  leisure  ; 

So  cool  your  brows  and  freshly  blue. 

As  Time  had  naught  for  ye  to  do ; 

For  ye  lie  at  your  length. 

An  unappropriated  strength, 

Unhewn  primeval  timber. 

For  knees  so  stiff,  for  masts  so  limber; 

The  stock  of  which  new  earths  are  made, 

One  day  to  be  our  western  trade. 

Fit  for  the  stanchions  of  a  world 

Which  througli  the  seas  of  space  is  hurled. 

While  we  enjoy  a  lingering  ray. 

Ye  still  o'ertop  the  western  day, 

Reposing  yonder  on  God's  croft 

Like  solid  stacks  of  hay; 

So  bold  a  line  as  ne'er  was  writ 

On  any  page  by  human  wit ; 

The  forest  glows  as  if 

An  enemy's  camp-fires  shone 

Along  the  horizon, 

Or  the  day's  funeral  pyre 

Were  lighted  there ; 

Edged  with  silver  and  with  gold, 

The  clouds  hang  o'er  in  damask  fold, 

And  with  such  depth  of  amber  light 

The  west  is  dight, 

Where  still  a  few  rays  slant, 


1 62      ./    WEEK   ON   THE    COXCORD   RIVER. 

That  even  Heaven  seems  extravagant. 

Watatic  Hill 

Lies  on  the  horizon's  sill 

Like  a  child's  toy  left  over  night, 

And  other  duds  to  left  and  right, 

On  the  earth's  edge,  mountains  and  trees, 

Stand  as  they  were  on  air  graven, 

Or  as  the  vessels  in  a  haven 

Await  the  morning  breeze. 

I  fancy  even 

Through  your  defiles  windeth  the  way  to  heaven; 

And  yonder  still,  in  spite  of  history's  page. 

Linger  the  golden  and  the  silver  age; 

Upon  the  laboring  gale 

The  news  of  future  centuries  is  brought,  ■ 

And  of  new  dynasties  of  thought,  h 

From  vour  remotest  vale. 


\ 


But  special  I  remember  thee, 

Wachusett,  who  like  me 

Standest  alone  without  society. 

Thy  far  blue  eye, 

A  remnant  of  the  sky. 

Seen  through  the  clearing  or  the  gorge, 

Or  from  the  windows  of  the  forge. 

Doth  leaven  all  it  passes  by. 

Nothing  is  true 

But  stands  'tween  me  and  you, 

Thou  western  pioneer. 

Who  know'st  not  shame  nor  fear, 

By  venturous  spirit  driven 

Under  the  eaves  of  heaven  ; 

And  can'st  expand  thee  there. 

And  breathe  enough  of  air  ? 

Even  beyond  the  West 

Thou  migratest. 

Into  unclouded  tracts, 

Without  a  pilgrim's  axe. 

Cleaving  thy  road  on  high 

With  thy  well-tempered  brow. 


I 


MONDAY.  163 

And  mak'st  thyself  a  clearing  in  the  sky. 

Upholding  heaven,  holding  down  earth, 

Thy  pastime  from  thy  birth  ; 

Not  steadied  by  the  one,  nor  leaning  on  the  other, 

May  I  approve  myself  thy  worthy  brother ! 

At  length,  like  Rasselas  and  other  inhabitants  of 
happy  valleys,  we  had  resolved  to  scale  the  blue  wall 
which  bounded  the  western  horizon,  though  not  with- 
out misgivings  that  thereafter  no  visible  fairy  land 
would  exist  for  us.  But  it  would  be  long  to  tell  of  our 
adventures,  and  we  have  no  time  this  afternoon,  trans- 
porting ourselves  in  imagination  up  this  hazy  Nashua 
valley,  to  go  over  again  tliat  pilgrimage.  We  have 
since  made  many  similar  excursions  to  the  principal 
mountains  of  New  England  and  New  York,  and  even 
far  in  the  wilderness,  and  have  passed  a  night  on  the 
summit  of  many  of  them.  And  now  when  we  look 
again  westward  from  our  native  hills,  Wachusett  and 
Monadnock  have  retreated  once  more  among  the  blue 
and  fabulous  mountains  in  the  horizon,  though  our 
eyes  rest  on  the  very  rocks  on  both  of  them,  where 
we  have  pitched  our  tent  for  a  night,  and  boiled  our 
hasty-pudding  amid  the  clouds. 

As  late  as  1724  there  was  no  house  on  the  north 
side  of  the  Nashua,  but  only  scattered  wigwams  and 
gristly  forests  between  this  frontier  and  Canada.  In 
September  of  that  year,  two  men  who  were  engaged 
in  making  turpentine  on  that  side,  for  such  were  the 
first  enterprises  in  the  wilderness,  were  taken  captive 
and  carried  to  Canada  by  a  party  of  thirty  Indians. 
Ten  of  the  inhabitants  of  Dunstable  going  to  look  for 
them,  found  the  hoops  of  their  barrel  cut,  and  the  tur- 
pentine spread  on  the  ground.     I  have  been  told  by 


1 64      A    WEEK   OX   THE    COX  CORD   RIVER. 

an  inhabitant  of  Tyngsboro\  who  had  the  stor)'  from 
his  ancestors,  that  one  of  these  captives,  when  the 
Indians  were  about  to  upset  his  barrel  of  turpentine, 
seized  a  pine  knot  and,  flourishing  it,  swore  so  reso- 
lutely that  he  would  kill  the  first  who  touched  it,  that 
they  refrained,  and  when  at  length  he  returned  from 
Canada  he  found  it  still  standing.  Perhaps  there  was 
more  than  one  barrel.  —  However  this  may  have  been, 
the  scouts  knew  by  marks  on  the  trees,  made  with 
coal  mixed  with  grease,  that  the  men  were  not  killed, 
but  taken  prisoners.  One  of  the  company,  named 
Farwell,  perceiving  that  the  turpentine  had  not  done 
spreading,  concluded  that  the  Indians  had  been  gone 
but  a  short  time,  and  they  accordingly  went  in  instant 
pursuit.  Contrary  to  the  advice  of  Fanvell,  follow- 
ing directly  on  their  trail  up  the  Merrimack,  they  fell 
into  an  ambuscade  near  Thornton's  Ferry,  in  the  pres- 
ent town  of  Merrimack,  and  nine  were  killed,  only  one, 
Farwell,  escaping  after  a  vigorous  pursuit.  The  men 
of  Dunstable  went  out  and  picked  up  their  bodies, 
and  carried  them  all  down  to  Dunstable  and  buried 
them.  It  is  almost  word  for  word  as  in  the  Robin 
Hood  ballad :  — 

"They  carried  these  foresters  into  fair  Nottingham, 

As  many  there  did  know, 
They  digg'd  them  graves  in  their  churchyard, 
And  they  buried  them  all  a  row." 

Nottingham  is  only  the  other  side  of  the  river,  and 
they  were  not  exactly  all  a-row.  You  may  read  in 
the  churchyard  at  Dunstable,  under  the  "Memento 
Mori,""  and  the  name  of  one  of  them,  how  they  '•  de- 
parted this  life,'"  and 


MONDAY.  165 

"  This  man  with  seven  more  that  lies  in 

this  grave  was  slew  all  in  a  day  by 

the  Indians." 

The  stones  of  some  others  of  the  company  stand 
around  the  common  grave  with  their  separate  inscrip- 
tions. Eight  were  buried  here,  but  nine  were  killed, 
according  to  the  best  authorities. 

*'  Gentle  river,  gentle  river, 

Lo,  thy  streams  are  stained  with  gore, 
Many  a  brave  and  noble  captain 
Floats  along  thy  willowed  shore. 

All  beside  thy  limpid  waters. 

All  beside  thy  sands  so  bright, 
bidian  Chiefs  and  Christian  warriors 

Joined  in  fierce  and  mortal  fight." 

It  is  related  in  the  history  of  Dunstable,  that  on 
the  return  of  Farwell  the  Indians  were  engaged  by  a 
fresh  party,  which  they  compelled  to  retreat,  and  pur- 
sued as  far  as  the  Nashua,  where  they  fought  across 
the  stream  at  its  mouth.  After  the  departure  of  the 
Indians,  the  figure  of  an  Indian's  head  was  found 
carved  by  them  on  a  large  tree  by  the  shore,  which 
circumstance  has  given  its  name  to  this  part  of  the 
village  of  Nashville,  — the  ^'  Indian  Head."  ''  It  was 
observed  by  some  judicious,"  says  Gookin,  referring 
to  Philip's  war,  "  that  at  the  beginning  of  the  war,  the 
English  soldiers  made  a  nothing  of  the  Indians,  and 
many  spake  words  to  this  effect ;  that  one  Englishman 
was  sufficient  to  chase  ten  Indians  ;  many  reckoned  it 
was  no  other  but  Veni^  vidi^  vici."''  But  we  may 
conclude  that  the  judicious  would  by  this  time  have 
made  a  different  observation. 


1 66      .1    WEEK   ON   THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

Farwell  appears  to  have  been  the  only  one  who  had 
studied  his  profession,  and  understood  the  business 
of  hunting  Indians.  He  lived  to  fight  another  day, 
for  the  next  year  he  was  Love  well's  Lieutenant  at 
Pequawket.  but  that  time,  as  we  have  related,  left  his 
bones  in  the  wilderness.  His  name  still  reminds  us 
of  twilight  days  and  forest  scouts  on  Indian  trails, 
with  an  uneasy  scalp ;  —  an  indispensable  hero  to 
New  England.  As  the  more  recent  poet  of  Love- 
well's  fight  has  sung,  halting  a  little  but  bravely 
still ;  — 

"  Then  did  the  crimson  streams  that  flowed, 
Seem  like  the  waters  of  the  brook, 
That  brightly  shine,  that  loudly  dash, 
Far  down  the  cliffs  of  Agiochook." 

These  battles  sound  incredible  to  us.  I  think  pos- 
terity will  doubt  if  such  things  ever  were  ;  if  our  bold 
ancestors  who  settled  this  land  were  not  struggling 
rather  with  the  forest  shadows,  and  not  with  a  copper 
colored  race  of  men.  They  were  vapors,  fever  and 
ague  of  the  unsettled  woods.  Now,  only  a  few  arrow- 
heads are  turned  up  by  the  plow.  In  the  Pelasgic. 
the  Etruscan,  or  the  British  story,  there  is  nothing  so 
shadowy  and  unreal. 

It  is  a  wild  and  antiquated  looking  grave-yard, 
overgrown  with  bushes,  on  the  higli  road,  about  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  from  and  overlooking  the  Merri- 
mack, with  a  deserted  mill  stream  bounding  it  on  one 
side,  where  lie  the  earthly  remains  of  the  ancient  in- 
habitants of  Dunstable.  We  passed  it  three  or  four 
miles  below  here.  You  may  read  there  the  names  of 
Lovewell.  Farwell,  and  many  others  whose  families 


MONDAY.  167 

were  distinguished  in  Indian  warfare.  We  noticed 
there  two  large  masses  of  granite  more  than  a  foot 
thick  and  rudely  squared,  lying  flat  on  the  ground 
over  the  remains  of  the  first  pastor  and  his  wife. 

It  is  remarkable  that  the  dead  lie  everywhere  under 
stones,  — 

"  Strata  jacent  passim  sua  quaeque  sub  "  lapide  — 

corpora^  we  might  say,  if  the  measure  allowed.  When 
the  stone  is  a  slight  one,  and  stands  upright,  pointing 
to  the  skies,  it  does  not  oppress  the  spirits  of  the  trav- 
eller to  meditate  by  it ;  but  these  did  seem  a  little 
heathenish  to  us ;  and  so  are  all  large  monuments 
over  men's  bodies,  from  the  pyramids  down.  A  monu- 
ment should  at  least  be  "  star-y-pointing,"  to  indi- 
cate whither  the  spirit  is  gone,  and  not  prostrate,  like 
the  body  it  has  deserted.  There  have  been  some 
nations  who  could  do  nothing  but  construct  tombs, 
and  these  are  the  only  traces  which  they  have  left. 
They  are  the  heathen.  But  why  these  stones,  so  up- 
right and  emphatic,  like  exclamation  points!  What 
was  there  so  remarkable  that  lived  ?  Why  should  the 
monument  be  so  much  more  enduring  than  the  fame 
which  it  is  designed  to  commemorate, — a  stone  to  a 
bone  ?  "  Here  lies,'"  — "'  Here  lies  ''' ;  —  why  do  they 
not  sometimes  write.  There  rises?  Is  it  a  monument 
to  the  body  only  that  is  intended?  ''  Having  reached 
the  term  of  his  natural  life ; ''  —  would  it  not  be 
truer  to  say.  Having  reached  the  term  of  his  unnatu- 
ral life?  The  rarest  quality  in  an  epitaph  is  truth. 
If  any  character  is  given  it  should  be  as  severely 
true  as  the  decision  of  the  three  judges  below,  and 
not  the  partial  testimony  of  friends.      Friends   and 


1 68      A    WEEK   O.V   THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

contemporaries  should  supply  only  the  name  and 
date,  and  leave  it  to  posterity  to  write  the  epitaph. 

Here  lies  an  honest  man, 
Rear-Admiral  Van. 

Faith,  then  ye  have 

Two  in  one  grave, 

For  in  his  favor, 

Here  too  lies  the  Engraver. 

Fame  itself  is  but  an  epitaph ;  as  late,  as  false,  as 
true.  But  they  only  are  the  true  epitaphs  which  Old 
Mortality  retouches. 

A  man  might  well  pray  that  he  may  not  taboo  or 
curse  any  portion  of  nature  by  being  buried  in  it. 
For  the  most  part,  the  best  man's  spirit  makes  a 
fearful  sprite  to  haunt  his  grave,  and  it  is  therefore 
much  to  the  credit  of  Little  John,  the  famous  follower 
of  Robin  Hood,  that  his  grave  was  •'•  long  celebrous 
for  the  yielding  of  excellent  whetstones."  I  confess 
that  I  have  but  little  love  for  such  collections  as  they 
have  at  the  Catacombs,  Pere  la  Chaise,  Mount  Au- 
burn, and  even  this  Dunstable  grave-yard.  At  any 
rate,  nothing  but  great  antiquity  can  make  grave-yards 
interesting  to  me.  I  have  no  friends  there.  It  may 
be  that  I  am  not  competent  to  write  the  poetry  of  the 
grave.  The  farmer  who  has  skimmed  his  farm  might 
perchance  leave  his  body  to  Nature  to  be  plowed  in. 
and  in  some  measure  restore  its  fertility.  We  should 
not  retard  but  forward  her  economies. 

Soon  the  village  of  Nashua  was  out  of  sigjit,  and 
the  woods  were  gained  again,  and  we  rowed  slowly 
on  before  sunset,  looking  for  a  solitary  place  in  which 


MONDAY.  169 

to  spend  the  night.  A  few  evening  clouds  began  to 
be  reflected  in  the  water,  and  the  surface  was  dimpled 
only  here  and  there  by  a  muskrat  crossing  the  stream. 
We  camped  at  length  near  Penichook  Brook,  on  the 
confines  of  Nashville,  by  a  deep  ravine,  under  the 
skirts  of  a  pine  wood,  where  the  dead  pine  leaves 
were  our  carpet,  and  their  tawny  boughs  stretched 
over  head.  But  fire  and  smoke  soon  tamed  the 
scene ;  the  rocks  consented  to  be  our  walls,  and 
the  pines  our  roof.  A  woodside  was  already  the 
fittest  locality  for  us. 

The  wilderness  is  near,  as  well  as  dear,  to  every 
man.  Even  the  oldest  villages  are  indebted  to  the 
border  of  wild  wood  which  surrounds  them,  more 
than  to  the  gardens  of  men.  There  is  something 
indescribably  inspiriting  and  beautiful  in  the  aspect 
of  the  forest  skirting  and  occasionally  jutting  into 
the  midst  of  new  towns,  which,  like  the  sand-heaps 
of  fresh  fox  burrows,  have  sprung  up  in  their  midst. 
The  very  uprightness  of  the  pines  and  maples  asserts 
the  ancient  rectitude  and  vigor  of  nature.  Our  lives 
need  the  relief  of  such  a  background,  where  the  pine 
flourishes  and  the  jay  still  screams. 

We  had  found  a  safe  harbor  for  our  boat,  and  as 
the  sun  was  setting  carried  up  our  furniture,  and  soon 
arranged  our  house  upon  the  bank,  and  while  the 
kettle  steamed  at  the  tent  door,  we  chatted  of  dis- 
tant friends,  and  of  the  sights  we  were  to  behold, 
and  wondered  which  way  the  towns  lay  from  us.  Our 
cocoa  was  soon  boiled,  and  supper  set  upon  our  chest, 
and  we  lengthened  out  this  meal,  like  old  voyageurs, 
with  our  talk.  Meanwhile  we  spread  the  map  on  the 
ground,  and  read  in  the  gazetteer  when  the  first  settlers 
came  here  and  got  a  township  granted.     Then,  when 


I/O      A    WEEK   OX   THE    CONCORD  RIVER. 

supper  was  done,  and  we  had  written  the  journal  of 
our  voyage,  we  wrapped  our  buflfaloes  about  us,  and 
lay  down  with  our  heads  pillowed  on  our  arms,  listen- 
ing awhile  to  the  distant  baying  of  a  dog,  or  the  mur- 
murs of  the  river,  or  to  the  wind,  which  had  not  gone 
to  rest,  — 

The  western  wind  came  lumbering  in, 
Bearing  a  faint  Pacific  din, 
•Our  evening  mail,  swift  at  the  call 
Of  its  Post-Master  General ; 
Laden  with  news  from  Californ*, 
Whate'er  transpired  hath  since  morn, 
How  wags  the  world  by  brier  and  brake 
From  hence  to  Athabasca  lake  ;  — 

or  half  awake  and  half  asleep,  dreaming  of  a  star  which 
glimmered  through  our  cotton  roof.  Perhaps  at  mid- 
night one  was  awakened  by  a  cricket  shrilly  singing 
on  his  shoulder,  or  by  a  hunting  spider  in  his  eye,  and 
was  lulled  asleep  again  by  some  streamlet  purling  its 
way  along  at  the  bottom  of  a  wooded  and  rocky  ravine 
in  our  neighborhood.  It  was  pleasant  to  lie  with  our 
heads  so  low  in  the  grass,  and  hear  what  a  tinkling 
ever-busy  laboratory  it  was.  A  thousand  little  arti- 
sans beat  on  their  anvils  all  night  long. 

Far  in  the  night,  as  we  were  falling  asleep  on  the 
bank  of  the  Merrimack,  we  heard  some  tyro  beating  a 
drum  incessantly,  in  preparation  for  a  country  muster, 
as  we  learned,  and  we  thought  of  the  line, 

"  \\'hen  the  drum  beat  at  dead  of  night." 

We  could  have  assured  him  that  his  beat  would  be 
answered,  and  the  forces  be  mustered.  Fear  not,  thou 
drummer  of  the  night,  we  too  will  be  there.  And  still 
he  dnnnmed  on  in  the  silence  and  the  dark.     This 


MONDAY.  171 

stray  sound  from  a  far-off  sphere  came  to  our  ears 
from  time  to  time,  far,  sweet,  and  significant,  and 
we  listened  with  such  an  unprejudiced  sense  as  if 
for  the  first  time  we  heard  at  all.  No  doubt  he  was 
an  insignificant  drummer  enough,  but  his  music 
afforded  us  a  prime  and  leisure  hour,  and  we  felt 
that  we  were  in  season  wholly.  These  simple  sounds 
related  us  to  the  stars.  Aye,  there  was  a  logic  in  them 
so  convincing  that  the  combined  sense  of  mankind 
could  never  make  me  doubt  their  conclusions.  I 
stop  my  habitual  thinking,  as  if  the  plow  had  suddenly 
run  deeper  in  its  furrow  through  the  crust  of  the  world. 
How  can  I  go  on,  who  have  just  stepped  over  such  a 
bottomless  skylight  in  the  bog  of  my  life.  Suddenly 
old  Time  winked  at  me,  —  Ah  you  know  me,  you  rogue, 
—  and  news  had  come  that  it  was  well.  That  ancient 
universe  is  in  such  capital  health,  I  think  undoubtedly 
it  will  never  die.  Heal  yourselves,  doctors ;  by  God 
I  live.— 

Then  idle  Time  ran  gadding  by 
And  left  me  with  Eternity  alone ; 
I  hear  beyond  the  range  of  sound, 
I  see  beyond  the  verge  of  sight, — 

I  see,  smell,  taste,  hear,  feel,  that  everlasting  Some- 
thing to  which  we  are  allied,  at  once  our  maker,  our 
abode,  our  destiny,  our  very  Selves  ;  the  one  historic 
truth,  the  most  remarkable  fact  which  can  become 
the  distinct  and  uninvited  subject  of  our  thought,  the 
actual  glory  of  the  universe  ;  the  only  fact  which  a 
human  being  cannot  avoid  recognizing,  or  in  some  way 
forget  or  dispense  with.  — 

It  doth  expand  my  privacies 
To  all,  and  leave  me  single  in  the  crowd. 


172      A    WEEK   ON   THE   CONCORD   RIVER. 

I  have  seen  how  the  foundations  of  the  world  are  laid, 
and  I  have  not  the  least  doubt  that  it  will  stand  a 
good  while. 

Now  chiefly  is  my  natal  hour, 

And  only  now  my  prime  of  life, 

I  will  not  doubt  the  love  untold, 

Which  not  my  worth  nor  want  hath  bought, 

Which  wooed  me  young  and  wooes  me  old, 

And  to  this  evening  hath  me  brought. 

What  are  ears  ?  what  is  Time  ?  that  this  particular 
series  of  sounds  called  a  strain  of  music,  an  invisible 
and  fairy  troop  which  never  brushed  the  dew  from 
any  mead,  can  be  wafted  down  through  the  centuries 
from  Homer  to  me,  and  he  have  been  conversant  with 
that  same  aerial  and  mysterious  charm  which  now  so 
tingles  my  ears?  What  a  fine  communication  from 
age  to  age,  of  the  fairest  and  noblest  thoughts,  the 
aspirations  of  ancient  men,  even  such  as  were  never 
communicated  by  speech !  It  is  the  flower  of  language, 
thought  colored  and  curved,  fluent  and  flexible,  its 
crystal  fountain  tinged  with  the  sun's  rays,  and  its 
purling  ripples  reflecting  the  grass  and  the  clouds. 
A  strain  of  music  reminds  me  of  a  passage  of  the 
Vedas,  and  I  associate  with  it  the  idea  of  infinite 
remoteness,  as  well  as  of  beauty  and  serenity,  for  to 
the  senses  that  is  furthest  from  us  which  addre'sses  the 
greatest  depth  within  us.  It  teaches  us  again  and 
again  to  trust  the  remotest  and  finest  as  the  divinest 
instinct,  and  makes  a  dream  our  only  real  expeiience. 
As  polishing  expresses  the  vein  in  marble  and  grain 
in  wood,  so  music  brings  out  what  of  heroic  lurks  any- 
where. The  hero  is  the  sole  patron  of  music.  That 
harmonv  which   exists   naturallv  between   the  hero's 


MONDAY,  173 

moods  and  the  universe  the  soldier  would  fain  imitate 
with  drum  and  trumpet.  When  we  are  in  health  all 
sounds  fife  and  drum  for  us ;  we  hear  the  notes  of 
music  in  the  air,  or  catch  its  echoes  dying  away  when 
we  awake  in  the  dawn.  Marching  is  when  the  pulse 
of  the  hero  beats  in  unison  with  the  pulse  of  Nature, 
and  he  steps  to  the  measure  of  the  universe ;  then 
there  is  true  courage  and  invincible  strength. 

Plutarch  says  that "  Plato  thinks  the  gods  never  gave 
men  music,  the  science  of  melody  and  harmony,  for 
mere  delectation  or  to  tickle  the  ear ;  but  that  the 
discordant  parts  of  the  circulations  and  beauteous 
fabric  of  the  soul,  and  that  of  it  that  roves  about  the 
body,  and  many  times,  for  want  of  tune  and  air, 
breaks  forth  into  many  extravagances  and  excesses, 
might  be  sweetly  recalled  and  artfully  wound  up  to 
their  former  consent  and  agreement." 

Music  is  the  sound  of  the  universal  laws  promul- 
gated. It  is  the  only  assured  tone.  There  are  in 
it  such  strains  as  far  surpass  any  man's  faith  in  the 
loftiness  of  his  destiny.  Things  are  to  be  learned 
which  it  will  be  worth  the  while  to  learn.  Formerly  I 
heard  these 

RUMORS   FROM   AN   yEOLIAN    HARP. 

There  is  a  vale  which  none  hath  seen, 
Where  foot  of  man  has  never  been, 
Such  as  here  lives  with  toil  and  strife, 
An  anxious  and  a  sinful  life. 

There  every  virtue  has  its  birth. 
Ere  it  descends  upon  the  earth, 
And  thither  every  deed  returns. 
Which  in  the  generous  bosom  burns. 

There  love  is  warm,  and  youth  is  young, 
And  poetry  is  yet  unsung. 


174    --^    WEEK   OX   THE   CONCORD   RIVER. 

For  Virtue  still  adventures  there. 
And  freely  breathes  her  native  air. 

And  ever,  if  you  hearken  well, 
You  still  may  hear  its  vesper  bell, 
And  tread  of  high-souled  men  go  by, 
Their  thoughts  conversing  with  the  sky. 

According  to  Jamblichus, ''  Pythagoras  did  not  pro- 
cure for  himself  a  thing  of  this  kind  through  instru- 
ments or  the  voice,  but  employing  a  certain  ineffable 
divinity,  and  which  it  is  difficult  to  apprehend,  he  ex- 
tended his  ears  and  fixed  his  intellect  in  the  sublime 
symphonies  of  the  world,  he  alone  hearing  and  under- 
standing, as  it  appears,  the  universal  harmony  and 
consonance  of  the  spheres,  and  the  stars  that  are 
moved  through  them,  and  which  produce  a  fuller  and 
more  intense  melody  than  anything  effected  by  mortal 
sounds." 

Travelling  on  foot  very  early  one  morning  due  east 
from  here  about  twenty  miles,  from  Caleb  Harriman's 
tavern  in  Hampstead  toward  Haverhill,  when  I  reached 
the  railroad  in  Plaistow,  I  heard  at  some  distance  a 
faint  music  in  the  air  like  an  ^olian  harp,  which  I 
immediately  suspected  to  proceed  from  the  cord  of 
the  telegraph  vibrating  in  the  just  awakening  morning 
wind,  and  applying  my  ear  to  one  of  the  posts  I  was 
convinced  that  it  was  so.  It  was  the  telegraph  harp 
singing  its  message  through  the  country,  its  message 
sent  not  by  men  but  by  gods.  Perchance,  -like  the 
statue  of  Memnon,  it  resounds  only  in  the  morning 
when  the  first  rays  of  the  sun  fall  on  it.  It  was  like 
the  first  lyre  or  shell  heard  on  the  sea-shore,  —  that 
vibrating  cord  high  in  the  air  over  the  shores  of  earth. 
So  have  all  things  their  higher  and  their  lower  uses. 
1  heard  a  fairer  news  than  the  journals  ever  print.     It 


MONDAY.  1/5 

told  of  things  worthy  to  hear,  and  worthy  of  the 
electric  fluid  to  carry  the  news  of,  not  of  the  price  of 
cotton  and  flour,  but  it  hinted  at  the  price  of  the 
world  itself  and  of  things  which  are  priceless,  of 
absolute  truth  and  beauty. 

Still  the  drum  rolled  on,  and  stirred  our  blood  to 
fresh  extravagance  that  night.  The  clarion  sound 
and  clang  of  corselet  and  buckler  were  heard  from 
many  a  hamlet  of  the  soul,  and  many  a  knight  was 
arming  for  the  fight  behind  the  encamped  stars.  — 

"  Before  each  van 
Prick  forth  the  aery  knights,  and  couch  their  spears 
Till  thickest  legions  close  ;  with  feats  of  arms 
From  either  end  of  Heaven  the  welkin  burns." 


Away!  away!  away!  away! 

Ye  have  not  kept  your  secret  well, 
I  will  abide  that  other  day, 

Those  other  lands  ye  tell. 

Has  time  no  leisure  left  for  these, 

The  acts  that  ye  rehearse  ? 
Is  not  eternity  a  lease 

For  better  deeds  than  verse  ? 

'Tis  sweet  to  hear  of  heroes  dead, 

To  know  them  still  alive, 
But  sweeter  if  we  earn  their  bread, 

And  in  us  they  survive. 

Our  life  should  feed  the  springs  of  fame 

With  a  perennial  wave, 
As  ocean  feeds  the  babbling  founts 

Which  find  in  it  their  grave. 

Ye  skies  drop  gently  round  my  breast, 

And  be  my  corselet  blue, 
Yc  earth  receive  my  lance  in  rest. 

My  faithful  charger  you  ; 


1/6    .4   irEER'   ox   THE    COXCORD  RIVER. 

Ye  stars  my  spear-heads  in  the  sky, 

My  arrow-tips  ye  are,  — 
I  see  the  routed  foemen  fly, 

My  bright  spears  fixed  are. 

Give  me  an  angel  for  a  foe. 

Fix  now  the  place  and  time. 
And  straight  to  meet  him  I  will  go 

Above  the  starry  chime. 

And  with  our  clashing  bucklers'  clang 
The  heavenly  spheres  shall  ring. 

While  bright  the  northern  lights  shall  hang 
Beside  our  tourneying. 

And  if  she  lose  her  champion  true, 

Tell  Heaven  not  despair, 
For  I  will  be  her  champion  new. 

Her  fame  I  will  repair. 

There  was  a  high  wind  this  night,  which  we  after- 
wards learned  had  been  still  more  violent  elsewhere, 
and  had  done  much  injury  to  the  cornfields  far  and 
near ;  but  we  only  heard  it  sigh  from  time  to  time,  as 
if  it  had  no  license  to  shake  the  foundations  of  our 
tent ;  the  pines  murmured,  the  water  rippled,  and  the 
tent  rocked  a  little,  but  w'e  only  laid  our  ears  closer 
to  the  ground,  while  the  blast  swept  on  to  alarm  other 
men,  and  long  before  sunrise  we  were  ready  to  pursue 
our  vovasfe  as  usual. 


TUESDAY. 

"  On  either  side  the  river  He 
Long  fields  of  barley  and  of  rye, 
That  clothe  the  wold  and  meet  the  sky; 
And  thro'  the  fields  the  road  runs  by 

To  many-towered  Camelot." 

Tennyson . 

Long  before  daylight  we  ranged  abroad  with  hatchet 
in  hand,  in  search  of  fuel,  and  made  the  yet  slumber- 
ing and  dreaming  wood  resound  with  our  blows. 
Then  with  our  fire  we  burned  up  a  portion  of  the  loi- 
tering night,  while  the  kettle  sang  its  homely  strain 
to  the  morning  star.  We  tramped  about  the  shore, 
waked  all  the  muskrats,  and  scared  up  the  bittern  and 
birds  that  were  asleep  upon  their  roosts ;  we  hauled 
up  and  upset  our  boat,  and  washed  it  and  rinsed  out 
the  clay,  talking  aloud  as  if  it  were  broad  day,  until  at 
length,  by  three  o^clock,  we  had  completed  our  prepa- 
rations and  were  ready  to  pursue  our  voyage  as  usual ; 
so,  shaking  the  clay  from  our  feet,  we  pushed  into  the 
fog. 

Though  we  were  enveloped  in  mist  as  usual,  we 
trusted  that  there  was  a  bright  day  behind  it. 

Ply  the  oars !  away  !  away  ! 
In  each  dew-drop  of  the  morning 

Lies  the  promise  of  a  day. 
Rivers  from  the  sunrise  flow, 

Springing  with  the  dewy  morn ; 
Voyageurs  'gainst  time  do  row, 
Idle  noon  nor  sunset  know, 

Ever  oven  with  the  dawn, 
177 


178    A    PVEEK   OX   THE   CONCORD  RIVER. 

Belknap,  the  historian  of  this  State,  says  that  "  In  the 
neighborhood  of  fresh  rivers  and  ponds,  a  whitish 
fog  in  the  morning,  lying  over  the  water,  is  a  sure  in- 
dication of  fair  weather  for  that  day ;  and  when  no 
fog  is  seen,  rain  is  expected  before  night/'  That 
which  seemed  to  us  to  invest  the  world,  was  only  a 
narrow  and  shallow  wreath  of  vapor  stretched  over 
the  channel  of  the  Merrimack  from  the  sea-board  to 
the  mountains.  More  extensive  fogs,  however,  have 
their  own  limits.  I  once  saw  the  day  break  from  the 
top  of  Saddle-back  Mountain  in  Massachusetts,  above 
the  clouds.  As  w-e  cannot  distinguish  objects  through 
this  dense  fog,  let  me  tell  this  story  more  at  length. 

I  had  come  over  the  hills  on  foot  and  alone  in  se- 
rene summer  days,  plucking  the  raspberries  by  the 
wayside,  and  occasionally  buying  a  loaf  of  bread  at  a 
farmer's  house,  with  a  knapsack  on  my  back,  which 
held  a  few  traveller's  books  and  a  change  of  clothing, 
and  a  staff  in  my  hand.  I  had  that  morning  looked 
down  from  the  Hoosack  Mountain,  where  the  road 
crosses  it,  on  the  village  of  North  Adams  in  the  val- 
ley, three  miles  away  under  my  feet,  showing  how  un- 
even the  earth  may  sometimes  be,  and  making  it  seem 
an  accident  that  it  should  ever  be  level  and  conven- 
ient for  the  feet  of  man.  Putting  a  little  rice  and 
sugar  and  a  tin  cup  into  my  knapsack  at  this  village. 
I  began  in  the  afternoon  to  ascend  the  mountain, 
whose  summit  is  three  thousand  six  hundred  feet 
above  the  level  of  the  sea,  and  was  seven  or  eight 
miles  distant  by  the  path.  My  route  lay  up  a  long 
and  spacious  .valley  called  the  Bellows,  because  the 
winds  rush  up  or  down  it  with  violence  in  storms, 
sloping  up  to  the  very  clouds  betvv-een  the  principal 


lUESDAY.  179 

range  and  a  lower  mountain.  There  were  a  few  farms 
scattered  along  at  different  elevations,  each  command- 
ing a  fine  prospect  of  the  mountains  to  the  north,  and 
a  stream  ran  down  the  middle  of  the  valley,  on  which 
near  the  head  there  was  a  mill.  It  seemed  a  road  for 
the  pilgrim  to  enter  upon  who  would  climb  to  the 
gates  of  heaven.  Now  I  crossed  a  hay-field,  and  now 
over  the  brook  on  a  slight  bridge,  still  gradually  as- 
cending all  the  while,  with  a  sort  of  awe,  and  filled 
with  indefinite  expectations  as  to  what  kind  of  inhabi- 
tants and  what  kind  of  nature  I  should  come  to  at  last. 
It  now  seemed  some  advantage  that  the  earth  was  un- 
even, for  one  could  not  imagine  a  more  noble  position 
for  a  farm-house  than  this  vale  afforded,  further  from 
or  nearer  to  its  head,  from  a  glen-like  seclusion  over- 
looking the  country  at  a  great  elevation  between  these 
two  mountain  walls. 

It  reminded  me  of  the  homesteads  of  the  Huguenots 
on  Staten  Island,  off  the  coast  of  New  Jersey.  The 
hills  in  the  interior  of  this  island,  though  compara- 
tively low,  are  penetrated  in  various  directions  by 
similar  sloping  valleys  on  a  humble  scale,  gradually 
narrowing  and  rising  to  the  centre,  and  at  the  head  of 
these  the  Huguenots,  who  were  the  first  settlers,  placed 
their  houses,  quite  within  the  land,  in  rural  and  shel- 
tered places,  in  leafy  recesses  where  the  breeze  played 
with  the  poplar  and  the  gum  tree,  from  which,  with  equal 
security  in  calm  and  storm,  they  looked  out  through  a 
widening  vista,  over  miles  of  forest  and  stretching 
salt  marsh,  to  the  Huguenots*  Tree,  an  old  elm  on  the 
shore  at  whose  root  they  had  landed,  and  across  the 
spacious  outer  bay  of  New  York  to  Sandy  Hook  and 
the  Highlands  of  Neversink,  and  thence  over  leagues 
of  the  Atlantic,  perchance  to  some  faint  vessel  in  the 


l80    A    WEEK   OX   THE  COXCORD   RIVER. 

horizon,  almost  a  day's  sail  on  her  voyage  to  that 
Europe  whence  they  had  come.  When  walking  in 
the  interior  there,  in  the  midst  of  rural  scenery,  where 
there  was  as  little  to  remind  me  of  the  ocean  as  amid 
the  New  Hampshire  hills,  I  have  suddenly,  through  a 
gap,  a  cleft  or  "  clove  road,''  as  the  Dutch  settlers 
called  it,  caught  sight  of  a  ship  under  full  sail,  over 
a  field  of  corn,  twenty  or  thirty  miles  at  sea.  The 
effect  was  similar,  since  I  had  no  means  of  measuring 
distances,  to  seeing  a  painted  ship  passed  backwards 
and  forwards  through  a  magic  lantern. 

But  to  return  to  the  mountain.  It  seemed  as  if  he 
must  be  the  most  singular  and  heavenly-minded  man 
whose  dwelling  stood  highest  up  the  valley.  The 
thunder  had  rumbled  at  my  heels  all  the  way,  but  the 
shower  passed  off  in  another  direction,  though  if  it 
had  not,  I  half  believed  that  I  should  get  above  it. 
I  at  length  reached  the  last  house  but  one,  where  the 
path  to  the  summit  diverged  to  the  right,  while  the 
summit  itself  rose  directly  in  front.  But  I  determined 
to  follow  up  the  valley  to  its  head,  and  then  find  my 
own  route  up  the  steep,  as  the  shorter  and  more  ad- 
venturous way.  I  had  thoughts  of  returning  to  this 
house,  which  was  well  kept  and  so  nobly  placed, 
the  next  day,  and  perhaps  remaining  a  week  there,  if 
I  could  have  entertainment.  Its  mistress  was  a  frank 
and  hospitable  young  woman,  who  stood  before  me  in 
a  dishabille,  busily  and  unconcernedly  combing  her 
long  black  hair  while  she  talked,  giving  her  head  the 
necessary-  toss  with  each  sweep  of  the  comb,  with 
lively,  sparkling  eyes,  and  full  of  interest  in  that  lower 
world  from  which  I  had  come,  talking  all  the  while  as 
familiarly  as  if  she  had  known  me  for  years,  and  re- 
minding me  of  a  cousin  of  mine.     She  at  first  had 


TUESDAY.  l8l 

taken  me  for  a  student  from  Williamstown,  for  they 
went  by  in  parties,  she  said,  either  riding  or  walking, 
almost  every  pleasant  day,  and  were  a  pretty  wild  set 
of  fellows ;  but  they  never  went  by  the  way  I  was 
going.  As  I  passed  the  last  house,  a  man  called  out 
to  know  what  I  had  to  sell,  for  seeing  my  knapsack, 
he  thought  that  I  might  be  a  pedler,  who  was  taking 
this  unusual  route  over  the  ridge  of  the  valley  into 
South  Adams.  He  told  me  that  it  was  still  four  or  five 
miles  to  the  summit  by  the  path  which  I  had  left, 
though  not  more  than  two  in  a  straight  line  from 
where  I  was,  but  nobody  ever  went  this  way ;  there 
was  no  path,  and  I  should  find  it  as  steep  as  the  roof 
of  a  house.  But  I  knew  that  I  was  more  used  to 
woods  and  mountains  than  he,  and  went  along  through 
his  cow-yard,  while  he,  looking  at  the  sun,  shouted 
after  me  that  I  should  not  get  to  the  top  that  night. 
I  soon  reached  the  head  of  the  valley,  but  as  I  could 
not  see  the  summit  from  this  point,  I  ascended  a  low 
mountain  on  the  opposite  side,  and  took  its  bearing 
with  my  compass.  I  at  once  entered  the  woods,  and 
began  to  climb  the  steep  side  of  the  mountain  in  a 
diagonal  direction,  taking  the  bearing  of  a  tree  every 
dozen  rods.  The  ascent  was  by  no  means  difficult  or 
unpleasant,  and  occupied  much  less  time  than  it  would 
have  taken  to  follow  the  path.  Even  country  people, 
I  have  observed,  magnify  the  difficulty  of  travelling  in 
the  forest,  and  especially  among  mountains.  They 
seem  to  lack  their  usual  common  sense  in  this.  I 
have  climbed  several  higher  mountains  without  guide 
or  path,  and  have  found,  as  might  be  expected,  that 
it  takes  only  more  time  and  patience  commonly  than 
to  travel  the  smoothest  highway.  It  is  very  rare  that 
you   meet  with   obstacles    in   this  world,  which    the 


1 82    A    WEEK   ON   THE   CONCORD   RIVER. 

humblest  man  has  not  faculties  to  surmount.  It  is 
true,  Ave  may  come  to  a  perpendicular  precipice,  but 
we  need  not  jump  off,  nor  run  our  heads  against  it. 
A  man  may  jump  down  his  own  cellar  stairs,  or  dash 
his  brains  out  against  his  chimney,  if  he  is  mad.  So 
far  as  my  experience  goes,  travellers  generally  exag- 
gerate the  difficulties  of  the  way.  Like  most  evil,  the 
difficulty  is  imaginary;  for  what's  the  hurry?  If  a 
person  lost  would  conclude  that  after  all  he  is  not 
lost,  he  is  not  beside  himself,  but  standing  in  his  own 
old  shoes  on  the  very  spot  where  he  is.  and  that  for 
the  time  being  he  will  live  there ;  but  the  places  that 
have  known  him.  they  are  lost,  —  how  much  anxiety 
and  danger  would  vanish.  I  am  not  alone  if  I  stand 
by  myself.  Who  knows  where  in  space  this  globe  is 
rolling  ?  Yet  we  will  not  give  ourselves  up  for  lost, 
let  it  go  where  it  will. 

I  made  my  way  steadily  upward  in  a  straight  line 
through  a  dense  undergrowth  of  mountain  laurel,  until 
the  trees  began  to  have  a  scraggy  and  infernal  look, 
as  if  contending  with  frost  goblins,  and  at  length  I 
reached  the  summit,  just  as  the  sun  was  setting. 
Several  acres  here  had  been  cleared,  and  were  covered 
with  rocks  and  stumps,  and  there  was  a  rude  observa- 
tory in  the  middle  which  overlooked  the  woods.  I 
had  one  fair  view  of  the  country  before  the  sun  went 
down,  but  I  was  too  thirsty  to  waste  any  light  in  view- 
ing the  prospect,  and  set  out  directly  to  find  water. 
First,  going  down  a  well-beaten  path  for  half  a  mile 
through  the  low  scrubby  wood,  till  I  came  to  where 
the  water  stood  in  the  tracks  of  the  horses  which  had 
carried  travellers  up,  I  lay  down  flat,  and  drank  these 
dry  one  after  another,  a  pure.  cold,  spring-like  water, 
but  yet  I  could  not  fill  my  dipper,  though  I  contrived 


TUESDAY.  183 

little  syphons  of  grass  stems  and  ingenious  aqueducts 
on  a  small  scale ;  it  was  too  slow  a  process.  Then 
remembering  that  I  had  passed  a  moist  place  near  the 
top  on  my  way  up,  I  returned  to  find  it  again,  and 
here  with  sharp  stones  and  my  hands,  in  the  twilight,  I 
made  a  well  about  two  feet  deep,  which  was  soon  filled 
with  pure  cold  water,  and  the  birds  too  came  and 
drank  at  it.  So  I  filled  my  dipper,  and  making  my 
way  back  to  the  observatory,  collected  some  dry  sticks 
and  made  a  fire  on  some  flat  stones,  which  had  been 
placed  on  the  floor  for  that  purpose,  and  so  I  soon 
cooked  my  supper  of  rice,  having  already  whittled  a 
wooden  spoon  to  eat  it  with. 

I  sat  up  during  the  evening,  reading  by  the  hght 
of  the  fire  the  scraps  of  newspapers  in  which  some 
party  had  wrapped  their  luncheon  ;  the  prices  cur- 
rent in  New  York  and  Boston,  the  advertisements, 
and  the  singular  editorials  which  some  had  seen  fit 
to  publish,  not  foreseeing  under  what  criticah  circum- 
stances they  would  be  read.  I  read  these  things  at  a 
vast  advantage  there,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  the 
advertisements,  or  what  is  called  the  business  part  of 
a  paper,  were  greatly  the  best,  the  most  useful,  natural, 
and  respectable.  Almost  all  the  opinions  and  senti- 
ments expressed  were  so  little  considered,  so  shallow 
and  flimsy,  that  I  thought  the  very  texture  of  the 
paper  must  be  weaker  in  that  part  and  tear  the  more 
easily.  The  advertisements  and  the  prices  current 
were  more  closely  allied  to  nature,  and  were  respect- 
able in  some  measure  as  tide  and  meteorological 
tables  are ;  but  the  reading  matter,  which  I  remem- 
bered was  most  prized  down  below,  unless  it  was 
some  humble  record  of  science,  or  an  extract  from 
some  old  classic,  struck  me  as  strangely  whimsical, 


184    -4    WEEK   ON   THE   COXCORD   RIVER. 

and  crude,  and  one-idea'd,  like  a  school-boy's  theme, 
such  as  youths  write  and  after  burn.  The  opinions 
were  of  that  kind  that  are  doomed  to  wear  a  different 
aspect  to-morrow,  like  last  year's  fashions  ;  as  if 
mankind  were  very  green  indeed,  and  would  be 
ashamed  of  themselves  in  a  few  years,  when  they  had 
outgrown  this  verdant  period.  There  was,  moreover, 
a  singular  disposition  to  wit  and  humor,  but  rarely 
the  slightest  real  success ;  and  the  apparent  success 
was  a  terrible  satire  on  the  attempt :  as  if  the  Evil 
Genius  of  man  laughed  the  loudest  at  his  best  jokes. 
The  advertisements,  as  I  have  said,  such  as  were 
serious,  and  not  of  the  modern  quack  kind,  suggested 
pleasing  and  poetic  thoughts :  for  commerce  is  really 
as  interesting  as  nature.  The  very  names  of  the 
commodities  were  poetic,  and  as  suggestive  as  if  they 
had  been  inserted  in  a  pleasing  poem,  —  Lumber. 
Cotton,  Sugar.  Hides.  Guano,  and  Logwood.  Some 
sober,  private,  and  original  thought  would  have  been 
grateful  to  read  there,  and  as  much  in  harmony  with 
the  circumstances  as  if  it  had  been  written  on  a 
mountain  top  ;  for  it  is  of  a  fashion  which  never 
changes,  and  as  respectable  as  hides  and  logwood,  or 
any  natural  product.  What  an  inestimable  compan- 
ion such  a  scrap  of  paper  would  have  been,  containing 
some  fruit  of  a  mature  life.  What  a  relic  I  What  a 
recipe!  It  seemed  a  divine  invention,  by  which  not 
mere  shining  coin,  but  shining  and  current  thoughts, 
could  be  brought  up  and  left  there. 

As  it  was  cold.  1  collected  quite  a  pile  of  wood  and 
lay  down  on  a  board  against  the  side  of  the  building, 
not  having  any  blanket  to  cover  me,  with  my  head  to 
the  fire,  that  I  might  look  after  it,  which  is  not  the 
Indian  rule.     But  as  it  grew  colder  towards  midnight, 


I 


TUESDAY.  185 

I  at  length  encased  myself  completely  in  boards, 
managing  even  to  put  a  board  on  top  of  me,  with  a 
large  stone  on  it,  to  keep  it  down,  and  so  slept  com- 
fortably. I  was  reminded,  it  is  true,  of  the  Irish 
children,  who  inquired  what  their  neighbors  did  who 
had  no  door  to  put  over  them  in  winter  nights  as  they 
had  ;  but  I  am  convinced  that  there  was  nothing 
very  strange  in  the  inquiry.  Those  who  have  never 
tried  it  can  have  no  idea  how  far  a  door,  which  keeps 
the  single  blanket  down,  may  go  toward  making  one 
comfortable.  We  are  constituted  a  good  deal  like 
chickens,  which  taken  from  the  hen,  and  put  in  a 
basket  of  cotton  in  the  chimney  corner,  will  often 
peep  till  they  die  nevertheless,  but  if  you  put  in  a  book, 
or  anything  heavy,  which  will  press  down  the  cotton, 
and  feel  like  the  hen,  they  go  to  sleep  directly.  My 
only  companions  were  the  mice,  which  came  to  pick 
up  the  crumbs  that  had  been  left  in  those  scraps  of 
paper ;  still,  as  everywhere,  pensioners  on  man,  and 
not  unwisely  improving  this  elevated  tract  for  their 
habitation.  They  nibbled  what  was  for  them  ;  I 
nibbled  what  was  for  me.  Once  or  twice  in  the 
night,  when  I  looked  up,  I  saw  a  white  cloud  drifting 
through  the  windows,  and  filling  the  whole  upper 
story. 

This  observatory  was  a  building  of  considerable 
size,  erected  by  the  students  of  Williamstown  College, 
whose  buildings  might  be  seen  by  daylight  gleaming 
far  down  in  the  valley.  It  would  really  be  no  small 
advantage  if  every  college  were  thus  located  at  the 
base  of  a  mountain,  as  good  at  least  as  one  well- 
endowed  professorship.  It  were  as  well  to  be  edu- 
cated in  the  shadow  of  a  mountain  as  in  more  classical 
shades.     Some  will  remember,  no   doubt,   not    only 


1 86     ./    WEEK   OK   THE   CONCORD   RIVER. 

that  they  went  to  the  college,  but  that  they  went  to 
the  mountain.  Every  visit  to  its  summit  would,  as 
it  were,  generalize  the  particular  information  gained 
below,  and  subject  it  tc  more  catholic  tests. 

I  was  up  early  and  perched  upon  the  top  of  this 
tower  to  see  the  daybreak,  for  some  time  reading  the 
names  that  had  been  engraved  there  before  I  could 
distinguish  more  distant  objects.  An  "untamable 
fly  "  buzzed  at  my  elbow  with  the  same  nonchalance 
as  on  a  molasses  hogshead  at  the  end  of  Long  Wharf. 
Even  there  I  must  attend  to  his  stale  humdrum. 
But  now  I  come  to  the  pith  of  this  long  digression. — 
As  the  light  increased  I  discovered  around  me  an 
ocean  of  mist,  which  reached  up  by  chance  exactly  to 
the  base  of  the  tower,  and  shut  out  every  vestige  of  the 
earth,  while  I  was  left  floating  on  this  fragment  of  the 
wreck  of  a  world,  on  my  carved  plank  in  cloudland  ;  a 
situation  which  required  no  aid  from  the  imagination 
to  render  it  impressive.  As  the  light  in  the  east 
steadily  increased,  it  revealed  to  me  more  clearly  the 
new  world  into  which  I  had  risen  in  the  night,  the 
new  terra-firma  perchance  of  my  future  life.  There 
was  not  a  crevice  left  through  which  the  trivial  places 
we  name  Massachusetts,  or  \'ermont,  or  New  York, 
could  be  seen,  while  I  still  inhaled  the  clear  atmos- 
phere of  a  July  morning,  —  if  it  were  July  there.  All 
around  beneath  me  was  spread  for  a  hundred  miles 
on  every  side,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  an  undu- 
lating country  of  clouds,  answering  in  the  varied 
swell  of  its  surface  to  the  tenestrial  world  it  veiled. 
It  was  such  a  country  as  we  might  see  in  dreams, 
with  all  the  delights  of  paradise.  There  were  immense 
snowy  pastures  apparently  smooth-shaven  and  firm, 
and  shady  vales   between   the  vaporous   mountains. 


TUESDA  Y.  I  ^J 

and  far  in  the  horizon  I  could  see  where  some  luxuri- 
ous misty  timber  jutted  into  the  prairie,  and  trace  the 
windings  of  a  water  course,  some  unimagined  Ama- 
zon or  Orinoko,  by  the  misty  trees  on  its  brink.  As 
there  was  wanting  the  symbol,  so  there  was  not  the 
substance  of  impurity,  no  spot  nor  stain.  It  was  a 
favor  for  which  to  be  forever  silent  to  be  shown  this 
vision.  The  earth  beneath  had  become  such  a  flitting 
thing  of  lights  and  shadows  as  the  clouds  had  been 
before.  It  was  not  merely  veiled  to  me,  but  it  had 
passed  away  like  the  phantom  of  a  shadow,  tr/cias  '6vap, 
and  this  new  platform  was  gained.  As  I  had  climbed 
above  storm  and  cloud,  so  by  successive  days'  journeys 
I  might  reach  the  region  of  eternal  day  beyond  the 
tapering  shadow  of  the  earth  ;  aye, 

"  Heaven  itself  shall  slide 
And  roll  away,  like  melting  stars  that  glide 
Along  their  oily  threads." 

But  when  its  own  sun  began  to  rise  on  this  pure 
world,  I  found  myself  a  dweller  in  the  dazzling  halls 
of  Aurora,  into  which  poets  have  had  but  a  partial 
glance  over  the  eastern  hills,  —  drifting  amid  the 
saffron-colored  clouds,  and  playing  with  the  rosy 
fingers  of  the  Dawn,  in  the  very  path  of  the  Sun\s 
chariot,  and  sprinkled  with  its  dewy  dust,  enjoying 
the  benignant  smile,  and  near  at  hand  the  far-darting 
glances  of  the  god.  The  inhabitants  of  earth  behold 
commonly  but  the  dark  and  shadowy  under-side  of 
heaven's  pavement ;  it  is  only  when  seen  at  a  favora- 
ble angle  in  the  horizon,  morning  or  evening,  that 
some  faint  streaks  of  the  rich  lining  of  the  clouds  are 
revealed.  But  my  muse  would  fail  to  convey  an  im- 
pression of  the  gorgeous  tapestry  by  which  I  was  sur- 


1 88     A    WEEK  OX   THE    COXCORD   RIVER. 

rounded,  such  as  men  see  faintly  reflected  afar  off  in 
the  chambers  of  the  east.  Here,  as  on  earth,  I  saw 
the  gracious  god 

"  Flatter  the  mountain  tops  with  sovereign  eye,  .  .   . 
Gilding  pale  streams  with  heavenly  alchemy." 

But  never  here  did  '*  Heaven's  sun  '^  stain  himself. 
But  alas,  owing  as  I  think  to  some  unworthiness  in 
myself,  my  private  sun  did  stain  himself,  and 

"  Anon  permit  the  basest  clouds  to  ride 
With  ugly  wrack  on  his  celestial  face,"  — 

for  before  the  god  had  reached  the  zenith  the  heavenly 
pavement  rose  and  embraced  my  wavering  virtue,  or 
rather  I  sank  down  again  into  that  '•  forlorn  world,"' 
from  which  the  celestial  Sun  had  hid  his  visage.  — 

"  How  may  a  worm,  that  crawls  along  the  dust, 
Clamber  the  azure  mountains,  thrown  so  high. 
And  fetch  from  thence  thy  fair  idea  just. 
That  in  those  sunny  courts  doth  hidden  lie, 
Cloth'd  with  such  light,  as  blinds  the  angel's  eye  ? 
How  may  weak  mortal  ever  hope  to  file 
His  unsmooth  tongue,  and  his  deprostrate  style  ? 
O,  raise  thou  from  his  corse  thy  now  entombed  exile !  " 

In  the  preceding  evening  I  had  seen  the  summits 
of  new  and  yet  higher  mountains,  the  Catskills,  by 
which  I  might  hope  to  climb  to  heaven  again,  and 
had  set  my  compass  for  a  fair  lake  in  the  south-west, 
which  lay  in  my  way,  for  which  I  now  steered,  descend- 
ing the  mountain  by  my  own  route,  on  the  side  oppo- 
site to  that  by  which  I  had  ascended,  and  soon  found 
myself  in  the  region  of  cloud  and  drizzling  rain,  and 
the  inhabitants  afiirmed  that  it  had  been  a  cloudy  and 
drizzling  dav  whollv- 


TUESDA  V.  I  89 

But  now  we  must  make  haste  back  before  the  fog 
disperses  to  the  blithe  Merrimack  water.  — 

Since  that  first  "  away !  away  !  " 

Many  a  lengthy  reach  we  've  rowed, 

Still  the  sparrow  on  the  spray 

Hastes  to  usher  in  the  day 

With  her  simple  stanza'd  ode. 

We  passed  a  canal  boat  before  sunrise,  groping  its 
way  to  the  seaboard,  and  though  we  could  not  see  it 
on  account  of  the  fog,  the  few  dull,  thumping,  sterto- 
rous sounds  which  we  heard,  impressed  us  with  a  sense 
of  weight  and  irresistible  motion.  One  little  rill  of 
commerce  already  awake  on  this  distant  New  Hamp- 
shire river.  The  fog,  as  it  required  more  skill  in  the 
steering,  enhanced  the  interest  of  our  early  voyage, 
and  made  the  river  seem  indefinitely  broad.  A  slight 
mist,  through  which  objects  are  faintly  visible,  has 
the  eiTect  of  expanding  even  ordinary  streams,  by  a 
singular  mirage,  into  arms  of  the  sea  or  inland  lakes. 
In  the  present  instance  it  was  even  fragrant  and 
invigorating,  and  we  enjoyed  it  as  a  sort  of  earlier 
sunshine,  or  dewy  and  embryo  light. 

Low-anchored  cloud, 

Newfoundland  air, 

Fountain-head  and  source  of  rivers, 

Dew  cloth,  dream  drapery. 

And  napkin  spread  by  fays ; 

Drifting  meadow  of  the  air, 

Where  bloom  the  daisied  banks  and  violets, 

And  in  whose  fenny  labyrinth 

The  bittern  booms  and  heron  wades; 

Spirit  of  lakes  and  seas  and  rivers, 

Bear  only  perfumes  and  the  scent 

Of  healing  herbs  to  just  men's  fields. 


I  go    A    WEEK  OX   THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

The  same  pleasant  and  observant  historian  whom 
we  quoted  above  says,  that  -In  the  mountainous  parts 
of  the  country,  the  ascent  of  vapors,  and  their  forma- 
tion into  clouds,  is  a  curious  and  entertaining  object. 
The  vapors  are  seen  rising  in  small  columns  like 
smoke  from  many  chimneys.  When  risen  to  a  cer- 
tain height,  they  spread,  meet,  condense,  and  are 
attracted  to  the  mountains,  where  they  either  distil 
in  gentle  dews,  and  replenish  the  springs,  or  descend 
in  showers,  accompanied  with  thunder.  After  short 
intermissions,  the  process  is  repeated  many  times  in 
the  course  of  a  summer  day,  affording  to  travellers  a 
lively  illustration  of  what  is  observed  in  the  book 
of  Job.  •  They  are  wet  with  the  showers  of  the 
mountains.' "' 

Fogs  and  clouds  which  conceal  the  overshadowing 
mountains  lend  the  breadth  of  the  plains  to  mountain 
vales.  Even  a  small  featured  country  acquires  some 
grandeur  in  stormy  weather,  when  clouds  are  seen 
drifting  between  the  beholder  and  the  neighboring 
hills.  When,  in  travelling  toward  Haverhill  through 
Hampstead  in  this  State,  on  the  height  of  land  be- 
tween the  Merrimack  and  the  Piscataqua  or  the  sea, 
you  commence  the  descent  eastward,  the  view  toward 
the  coast  is  so  distant  and  unexpected,  though  the 
sea  is  invisible,  that  you  at  first  suppose  the  unob- 
structed atmosphere  to  be  a  fog  in  the  lowlands  con- 
cealing hills  of  corresponding  elevation  to  that  you 
are  upon :  but  it  is  the  mist  of  prejudice  alone,  which 
the  winds  will  not  disperse.  The  most  stupendous 
scenery  ceases  to  be  sublime  when  it  becomes  distinct, 
or  in  other  words  limited,  and  the  imagination  is  no 
longer  encouraged  to  exaggerate  it.  The  actual  height 
and  breadth  of  a  mountain  or  a  water-fall  are  always 


rUESDA  K  191 

ridiculously  small ;  they  are  the  imagined  only  that 
content  us.  Nature  is  not  made  after  such  a  fashion 
as  we  would  have  her.  We  piously  exaggerate  her 
wonders  as  the  scenery  around  our  home. 

Such  was  the  heaviness  of  the  dews  along  this 
river,  that  we  were  generally  obliged  to  leave  our 
tent  spread  over  the  bows  of  the  boat  till  the  sun 
had  dried  it.  to  avoid  mildew.  We  jjassed  the  mouth 
of  Penichook  Brook,  a  wild  salmon  stream,  in  the 
fog  without  seeing  it.  At  length  the  sun's  rays  strug- 
gled through  the  mist  and  showed  us  the  pines  on 
shore  dripping  with  dew,  and  springs  trickling  from 
the  moist  banks,  — 

"  And  now  the  taller  sons,  whom  Titan  warms, 
Of  unshorn  mountains  blown  with  easy  winds. 
Dandle  the  morning's  childhood  in  their  arms, 
And,  if  they  chanced  to  slip  the  prouder  pines, 
The  under  corylets  did  catch  their  shines, 
To  gild  their  leaves." 

We  rowed  for  some  hours  between  glistening  banks 
before  the  sun  had  dried  the  grass  and  leaves,  or  the 
day  had  established  its  character.  Its  serenity  at 
last  seemed  the  more  profound  and  secure  for  the 
denseness  of  the  morning's  fog.  The  river  became 
swifter,  and  the  scenery  more  pleasing  than  before. 
The  banks  were  steep  and  clayey  for  the  most  part, 
and  trickling  with  water,  and  where  a  spring  oozed 
out  a  few  feet  above  the  river,  the  boatmen  had  cut 
a  trough  out  of  a  slab  with  their  axes,  and  placed 
it  so  as  to  receive  the  water  and  fill  their  jugs  con- 
veniently. Sometimes  this  purer  and  cooler  water, 
bursting  out  from  under  a  pine  or  a  rock,  was  col- 
lected into  a  basin  close  to  the  edge  of,  and  level 
with    the   river,    a  fountain-head   of  the  Merrimack. 


192    A    WEEK   OX   THE    COXCORD   RIVER. 

So  near  along  life's  stream  are  the  fountains  of  inno- 
cence and  youth  making  fertile  its  sandy  margin  ;  and 
the  voyageur  will  do  well  to  replenish  his  vessels  often 
at  these  uncontaminated  sources.  Some  youthful 
spring,  perchance,  still  empties  with  tinkling  music 
into  the  oldest  river,  even  when  it  is  falling  into 
the  sea,  and  we  imagine  that  its  music  is  distin- 
guished by  the  river  gods  from  the  general  lapse  of 
the  stream,  and  falls  sweeter  on  their  ears  in  propor- 
tion as  it  is  nearer  to  the  ocean.  As  the  evapora- 
tions of  the  river  feed  thus  these  unsuspected  springs 
which  filter  through  its  banks,  so,  perchance,  our 
aspirations  fall  back  again  in  springs  on  the  margin 
of  life's  stream  to  refresh  and  purify  it.  The  yellow 
and  tepid  river  may  float  his  scow,  and  cheer  his  eye 
with  its  reflections  and  its  ripples,  but  the  boat- 
man quenches  his  thirst  at  this  small  rill  alone.  It 
is  this  purer  and  cooler  element  that  chiefly  sustains 
his  life.  The  race  will  long  survive  that  is  thus 
discreet. 

Our  course  this  morning  lay  between  the  territories 
of  Merrimack,  on  the  west,  and  Litchfield,  once  called 
Brenton's  Farm,  on  the  east,  which  townships  were 
anciently  the  Indian  Naticook.  Brenton  was  a  fur 
trader  among  the  Indians,  and  these  lands  were 
granted  to  him  in  1656.  The  latter  township  con- 
tains about  five  hundred  inhabitants,  of  whom,  how- 
ever, we  saw  none,  and  but  few  of  their  dwellings. 
Being  on  the  river,  whose  banks  are  always  high  and 
generally  conceal  the  few  houses,  the  country  ap- 
peared much  more  wild  and  primitive  than  to  the 
traveller  on  the  neighboring  roads.  The  river  is  by 
far  the  most  attractive  highway,  and  those  boatmen 
who  have  spent  twenty  or  twenty-five   years   on   it. 


TUESDAY.  193 

must  have  had  a  much  fairer,  more  wild  and  memo- 
rable experience  than  the  dusty  and  jarring  one  of  the 
teamster,  who  has  driven,  during  the  same  time,  on 
the  roads  which  run  parallel  with  the  stream.  As 
one  ascends  the  Merrimack,  he  rarely  sees  a  village, 
but  for  the  most  part,  alternate  wood  and  pasture 
lands,  and  sometimes  a  field  of  corn  or  potatoes,  of 
rye  or  oats  or  English  grass,  with  a  few  straggling 
apple  trees,  and,  at  still  longer  intervals,  a  farmer's 
house.  The  soil,  excepting  the  best  of  the  interval, 
is  commonly  as  light  and  sandy  as  a  patriot  could 
desire.  Sometimes  this  forenoon  the  country  ap- 
peared in  its  primitive  state,  and  as  if  the  Indian  still 
inhabited  it ;  and  again,  as  if  many  free  new  settlers 
occupied  it,  their  slight  fences  straggling  down  to  the 
water's  edge,  and  the  barking  of  dogs,  and  even  the 
prattle  of  children,  were  heard,  and  smoke  was  seen 
to  go  up  from  some  hearthstone,  and  the  banks  were 
divided  into  patches  of  pasture,  mowing,  tillage,  and 
woodland.  But  when  the  river  spread  out  broader, 
with  an  uninhabited  islet,  or  a  long  low  sandy  shore 
which  ran  on  single  and  devious,  not  answering  to 
its  opposite,  but  far  olT  as  if  it  were  seashore  or  single 
coast,  and  the  land  no  longer  nursed  the  river  in 
its  bosom,  but  they  conversed  as  equals,  the  rustling 
leaves  with  rippling  waves,  and  few  fences  were 
seen,  but  high  oak  woods  on  one  side,  and  large 
herds  of  cattle,  and  all  tracks  seemed  a  point  to  one 
centre,  behind  some  statelier  grove,  —  we  imagined 
that  the  river  flowed  through  an  extensive  manor,  and 
that  the  few  inhabitants  were  retainers  to  a  lord,  and 
a  feudal  state  of  things  prevailed. 

When  there  was  a  suitable  reach,  we  caught  sight 
of  the  Goflfstown  Mountain,  the  Indian  Uncannnnuc, 


194    '-^    WEEK   OX   THE    CONCORD  RIVER. 

rising  before  us  on  the  west  side.  It  was  a  calm  and 
beautiful  day,  with  only  a  slight  zephyr  to  ripple  the 
surface  of  the  water,  and  rustle  the  woods  on  shore, 
and  just  warmth  enough  to  prove  the  kindly  dispo- 
sition of  Nature  to  her  children.  With  buoyant 
spirits  and  vigorous  impulses  we  tossed  our  boat 
rapidly  along  into  the  very  middle  of  this  forenoon. 
The  fish-hawk  sailed  and  screamed  overhead.  The 
chipping,  or  striped  squirrel,  sciJirus  striatus,  sat 
upon  the  end  of  some  Virginia  fence  or  rider  reach- 
ing over  the  stream,  twirling  a  green  nut  with  one 
paw,  as  in  a  lathe,  while  the  other  held  it  fast  against 
its  incisors  as  chisels.  Like  an  independent  russet 
leaf,  with  a  will  of  its  own,  rustling  whither  it  could ; 
now  under  the  fence,  now  over  it,  now  peeping 
at  the  voyageurs  through  a  crack  with  only  its  tail 
visible,  now  at  its  lunch  deep  in  the  toothsome  kernel, 
and  now  a  rod  off  playing  at  hide-and-seek,  with 
the  nut  stowed  away  in  its  chops,  where  were  half 
a  dozen  more  beside,  extending  its  cheeks  to  a 
ludicrous  breadth.  As  if  it  were  devising  through 
what  safe  valve  of  frisk  or  somerset  to  let  its  super- 
fluous life  escape ;  the  stream  passing  harmlessly  off, 
even  while  it  sits,  in  constant  electric  flashes  through 
its  tail ;  and  now  with  a  chuckling  squeak  it  dives 
into  the  root  of  a  hazel,  and  we  see  no  more  of  it. 
Or  the  larger  red  squirrel  or  chickaree,  sometimes 
called  the  Hudson  Bay  squirrel,  striunts  Hudsonius, 
gave  warning  of  our  approach  by  that  peculiar  alarum 
of  his,  like  the  winding  up  of  some  strong  clock, 
in  the  top  of  a  pine  tree,  and  dodged  behind  its  stem, 
or  leaped  from  tree  to  tree,  with  such  caution  and 
adroitness  as  if  much  depended  on  the  fidelity  of  his 
scout,  running  along  the  white  pine    boughs   some- 


TUESDAY.  195 

times  twenty  rods  by  our  side,  with  such  speed,  and 
by  such  unerring  routes  as  if  it  were  some  well-worn 
familiar  path  to  him  :  and  presently,  when  we  have 
passed,  he  returns  to  his  work  of  cutting  off  the  pine 
cones,  and  letting  them  fall  to  the  ground. 

We  passed  Cromwell's  Falls,  the  first  we  met  with 
on  this  river,  this  forenoon,  by  means  of  locks,  with- 
out using  our  wheels.  These  falls  are  the  Nesen- 
keag  of  the  Indians.  Great  Nesenkeag  Stream  comes 
in  on  the  right  just  above,  and  Little  Nesenkeag 
some  distance  below,  both  in  Litchfield.  We  read 
in  the  gazetteer,  under  the  head  of  Merrimack,  that 
"  The  first  house  in  this  town  was  erected  on  the 
margin  of  the  river  [soon  after  1665]  for  a  house  of 
traffic  with  the  Indians.  For  some  time  one  Crom- 
well carried  on  a  lucrative  trade  with  them,  weigh- 
ing their  furs  with  his  foot,  till,  enraged  at  his 
supposed  or  real  deception,  they  formed  the  resolu- 
tion to  murder  him.  This  intention  being  communi- 
cated to  Cromwell,  he  buried  Iiis  wealth  and  made 
his  escape.  Within  a  few  hours  after  his  flight,  a 
party  of  the  Penacook  tribe  arrived,  and  not  find- 
ing the  object  of  their  resentment,  burnt  his  habi- 
tation." Upon  the  top  of  the  high  bank  here,  close 
to  the  river,  was  still  to  be  seen  his  cellar,  now  over- 
grown with  trees.  It  was  a  convenient  spot  for  such 
a  traffic,  at  the  foot  of  the  first  falls  above  the  settle- 
ments, and  commanding  a  pleasant  view  up  the  river, 
where  he  could  see  the  Indians  coming  down  with 
their  furs.  The  lock-man  told  us  that  his  shovel  and 
tongs  had  been  plowed  up  here,  and  also  a  stone 
with  his  name  on  it.  But  we  will  not  vouch  for 
the  truth  of  this  story.  These  were  the  traces  of 
the  white  trader.     On  the  opposite  bank,   where   it 


196    A    WEEK   OX   THE    COXCORD   RIVER. 

jutted  over  the  stream  cape-wise,  we  picked  up  four 
arrow-heads  and  a  small  Indian  tool  made  of  stone, 
as  soon  as  we  had  climbed  it,  where  plainly  there 
had  once  stood  a  wigwam  of  the  Indians  with  whom 
Cromwell  traded,  and  who  fished  and  hunted  here 
before  he  came. 

As  usual  the  gossips  have  not  been  silent  respect- 
ing Cromwell's  buried  wealth,  and  it  is  said  that 
some  years  ago  a  farmer's  plow,  not  far  from  here, 
slid  over  a  flat  stone  which  emitted  a  hollow  sound, 
and  on  its  being  raised  a  sum  of  money  was  found. 
The  lock-man  told  us  another  similar  story  about  a 
farmer  in  a  neighboring  town,  who  had  been  a  poor 
man,  but  who  suddenly  bought  a  good  farm,  and  was 
well  to  do  in  the  world  ;  and,  when  he  was  questioned, 
did  not  give  a  satisfactory  account  of  the  matter :  — 
how  few  alas,  could!  This  caused  his  hired  man  to 
remember,  that  one  day  as  they  were  plowing  together 
the  plow  struck  something,  and  his  employer  going 
back  to  look,  concluded  not  to  go  round  again,  say- 
ing that  the  sky  looked  rather  louring,  and  so  put  up 
his  team.  The  like  urgency  has  caused  many  things 
to  be  remembered  which  never  transpired.  The  truth 
is,  there  is  money  buried  everywhere,  and  you  have 
only  to  go  work  to  find  it. 

Not  far  from  these  falls  stands  an  oak  tree  on  the 
interval,  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  river,  on 
the  farm  of  a  Mr.  Lund,  which  was  pointed  out  to 
us  as  the  spot  where  French,  the  leader  of  the  party 
which  went  in  pursuit  of  the  Indians  from  Dunstable, 
was  killed.  Fanvell  dodged  them  in  the  thick  woods 
near.  It  did  not  look  as  if  men  had  ever  had  to  run 
for  their  lives  on  this  now  open  and  peaceful  interval. 

Here  too  was  another  extensive  desert  bv  the  side 


TUESDAY.  197 

of  the  road  in  Litchfield,  visible  from  the  bank  of  the 
river.  The  sand  was  blown  off  in  some  places  to  the 
depth  of  ten  or  twelve  feet,  leaving  small  grotesque 
hillocks  of  that  height  where  there  was  a  clump  of 
bushes  firmly  rooted.  Thirty  or  forty  years  ago,  as 
we  were  told,  it  was  a  sheejD  pasture,  but  the  sheep 
being  worried  by  the  fleas,  began  to  paw  the  ground, 
till  they  broke  the  sod,  and  so  the  sand  began  to 
blow,  till  now  it  had  extended  over  forty  or  fifty 
acres.  This  evil  might  easily  have  been  remedied 
at  first,  by  spreading  birches  with  their  leaves  on 
over  the  sand,  and  fastening  them  down  with  stakes, 
to  break  the  wind.  The  flies  bit  the  sheep,  and  the 
sheep  bit  the  ground,  and  the  sore  had  spread  to  this 
extent.  It  is  astonishing  what  a  great  sore  a  little 
scratch  breedeth.  Who  knows  but  Sahara,  where 
caravans  and  cities  are  buried,  began  with  the  bite 
of  an  African  flea.  This  poor  globe,  how  it  must 
itch  in  many  places!  Will  no  god  be  kind  enough 
to  spread  a  salve  of  birches  over  its  sores?  —  Here 
too  we  noticed  where  the  Indians  had  gathered  a 
heap  of  stones,  perhaps  for  their  council  fire,  which 
by  their  weight  having  prevented  the  sand  under 
them  from  blowing  away,  were  left  on  the  summit  of 
a  mound.  They  told  us  that  arrow-heads,  and  also 
bullets  of  lead  and  iron,  had  been  found  here.  We 
noticed  several  other  sandy  tracts  in  our  voyage ;  and 
the  course  of  the  Merrimack  can  be  traced  from  the 
nearest  mountain  by  its  yellow  sandbanks,  though  the 
river  itself  is  for  the  most  part  invisible.  Lawsuits, 
as  we  hear,  have  in  some  cases  grown  out  of  these 
causes.  Railroads  have  been  made  througli  certain 
irritable  districts,  breaking  their  sod,  and  so  have  set 
the  sand  to  blowing,  till  it  has  converted  fertile  farms 


198    .4    IVEEK   ON   THE    COX  CORD   RIVER. 

into  deserts,  and   the  Company  has  had  to  pay  the 
damages. 

This  sand  seemed  to  us  the  connecting  link  between 
land  and  water.  It  was  a  kind  of  water  on  which  you 
could  walk,  and  you  could  see  the  ripple  marks  on  its 
surface,  produced  by  the  winds,  precisely  like  those 
at  the  bottom  of  a  brook  or  lake.  We  had  read 
that  Mussulmans  are  permitted  by  the  Koran  to  per- 
form their  ablutions  in  sand  when  they  cannot  get 
water,  a  necessary  indulgence  in  Aral^ia,  and  we  now 
understood  the  propriety  of  this  provision. 

Plum  Island,  at  the  mouth  of  this  river,  to  whose 
formation,  perhaps,  these  very  banks  have  sent  their 
contribution,  is  a  similar  desert  of  drifting  sand,  of 
various  colors,  blown  into  graceful  curves  by  the 
wind.  It  is  a  mere  sand-bar  exposed,  stretching 
nine  miles  parallel  to  the  coast,  and,  exclusive  of  the 
marsh  on  the  inside,  rarely  more  than  half  a  mile 
wide.  There  are  but  half  a  dozen  houses  on  it,  and 
it  is  almost  without  a  tree,  or  a  sod,  or  any  green 
thing  with  which  a  countryman  is  familiar.  The 
thin  vegetation  stands  half  buried  in  sand,  as  in  drift- 
ing snow.  The  only  shrub,  the  beach  plum,  which 
gives  the  island  its  name,  grows  but  a  few  feet  high  ; 
but  this  is  so  abundant  that  parties  of  a  hundred  at 
once  come  from  the  main  land  and  down  the  Merri- 
mack in  September,  and  pitch  their  tents,  and  gather 
the  plums,  which  are  good  to  eat  raw  and  to  preserve. 
The  graceful  and  delicate  beach  pea  too  grows  abun- 
dantly amid  the  sand ;  and  several  strange  moss-like 
and  succulent  plants.  The  island  for  its  whole  length 
is  scolloped  into  low  hills,  not  more  than  twenty  feet 
high,  by  the  wind,  and  excepting  a  faint  trail  on  the 


TUESDAY.  199 

edge  of  the  marsh,  is  as  trackless  as  Sahara.  There 
are  dreary  bluffs  of  sand  and  valleys  plowed  by  the 
wind,  where  you  might  expect  to  discover  the  bones 
of  a  caravan.  Schooners  come  from  Boston  to  load 
with  the  sand  for  masons'  uses,  and  in  a  few  hours 
the  wind  obliterates  all  traces  of  their  work.  Yet 
you  have  only  to  dig  a  foot  or  two  anywhere  to  come 
to  fresh  water;  and  you  are  surprised  to  learn  that 
woodchucks  abound  here,  and  foxes  are  found,  though 
you  see  not  where  they  can  burrow  or  hide  themselves. 
I  have  walked  down  the  whole  length  of  its  broad 
beach  at  low  tide,  at  which  time  alone  you  can  find 
a  firm  ground  to  walk  on,  and  probably  Massachusetts 
does  not  furnish  a  more  grand  and  dreary  walk.  On 
the  sea  side  there  are  only  a  distant  sail  and  a  few 
coots  to  break  the  grand  monotony.  A  solitary  stake 
stuck  up,  or  a  sharper  sand-hill  than  usual,  is  remarka- 
ble as  a  land-mark  for  miles  ;  while  for  music  you  hear 
only  the  ceaseless  sound  of  the  surf,  and  the  dreary 
peep  of  the  beach  birds. 

There  were  several  canal  boats  at  CromwelPs  Falls, 
passing  through  the  locks,  for  which  we  waited.  In 
the  forward  part  of  one  stood  a  brawny  New  Hamp- 
shire man,  leaning  on  his  pole,  bareheaded  and  in 
shirt  and  trousers  only,  a  rude  Apollo  of  a  man, 
coming  down  from  that  "  vast  uplandish  country  "  to 
the  main  ;  of  nameless  age,  with  flaxen  hair,  and  vig- 
orous, weather-bleached  countenance,  in  whose  wrin- 
kles the  sun  still  lodged,  as  little  touched  by  the  heats 
and  frosts  and  withering  cares  of  life,  as  a  mountain 
maple  ;  an  undressed,  unkempt,  uncivil  man,  with 
whom  we  parleyed  a  while,  and  parted  not  without  a 
sincere  interest  in  one  another.     His  humanity  was 


200    A    WEEK  ON-   THE    CONCORD  RIVER. 

genuine  and  instinctive,  and  his  mdeness  only  a  man- 
ner. He  inquired,  just  as  we  were  passing  out  of  ear- 
shot, if  we  had  killed  anything,  and  we  shouted  after 
him  that  we  had  shot  a  buoy^  and  could  see  him  for  a 
long  while  scratching  his  head  in  vain,  to  know^  if  he 
had  heard  aright. 

There  is  reason  in  the  distinction  of  civil  and  un- 
civil. The  manners  are  sometimes  so  rough  a  rind, 
that  we  doubt  whether  they  cover  any  core  or  sap- 
wood  at  all.  We  sometimes  meet  uncivil  men,  chil- 
dren of  Amazons,  who  dwell  by  mountain  paths,  and 
are  said  to  be  inhospitable  to  strangers ;  whose  salu- 
tation is  as  rude  as  the  grasp  of  their  brawny  hands, 
and  who  deal  with  men  as  unceremoniously  as  they 
are  wont  to  deal  with  the  elements.  They  need  only 
to  extend  their  clearings,  and  let  in  more  sunlight,  to 
seek  out  the  southern  slopes  of  the  hills,  from  which 
they  may  look  down  on  the  civil  plain  or  ocean,  and 
temper  their  diet  duly  with  the  cereal  fruits,  consum- 
ing less  wild  meat  and  acorns,  to  become  like  the 
inhabitants  of  cities.  A  true  politeness  does  not  re- 
sult from  any  hasty  and  artificial  polishing,  it  is  true, 
but  grows  naturally  in  characters  of  the  right  grain 
and  quality,  through  a  long  fronting  of  men  and 
events,  and  rubbing  on  good  and  bad  fortune.  Per- 
haps I  can  tell  a  tale  to  the  purpose  while  the  lock  is 
filling,  —  for  our  voyage  this  forenoon  furnishes  but 
few  incidents  of  importance. 

Early  one  summer  morning  I  had  left  the  shores  of 
the  Connecticut,  and  for  the  livelong  day  travelled  up 
the  bank  of  a  river,  which  came  in  from  the  west ; 
now  looking  down  on  the  stream,  foaming  and  rip- 
pling through  the  forest  a  mile  off.  from  the  hills  over 


TUESDAY.  20 1 

which  the  road  led,  and  now  sitting  on  its  rocky  brink 
and  dipping  my  feet  in  its  rapids,  or  bathing  adventur- 
ously in  mid-channel.  The  hills  grew  more  and  more 
frequent,  and  gradually  swelled  into  mountains  as  I 
advanced,  hemming  in  the  course  of  the  river,  so  that 
at  last  I  could  not  see  where  it  came  from,  and  was  at 
liberty  to  imagine  the  most  wonderful  meanderings 
and  descents.  At  noon  I  slept  on  the  grass  in  the 
shade  of  a  maple,  where  the  river  had  found  a  broader 
channel  than  usual,  and  was  spread  out  shallow,  with 
frequent  sand-bars  exposed.  In  the  names  of  the 
towns  I  recognized  some  which  I  had  long  ago  read 
on  teamsters'  wagons,  that  had  come  from  far  up 
country,  quiet,  uplandish  towns,  of  mountainous  fame. 
I  walked  along  musing,  and  enchanted  by  rows  of 
sugar-maples,  through  the  small  and  uninquisitive 
villages,  and  sometimes  was  pleased  with  the  sight 
of  a  boat  drawn  up  on  a  sand-bar,  where  there  ap- 
peared no  inhabitants  to  use  it.  It  seemed,  however, 
.as  essential  to  the  river  as  a  fish,  and  to  lend  a  certain 
dignity  to  it.  It  was  like  the  trout  of  mountain  streams 
to  the  fishes  of  the  sea,  or  like  the  young  of  the  land 
crab  born  far  in  the  interior,  who  have  never  yet  heard 
the  sound  of  the  ocean's  surf.  The  hills  approached 
nearer  and  nearer  to  the  stream,  until  at  last  they 
closed  behind  me,  and  I  found  myself,  just  before 
night-fall,  in  a  romantic  and  retired  valley,  about  half 
a  mile  in  length,  and  barely  wide  enough  for  the 
stream  at  its  bottom.  I  thought  that  there  could  be 
no  finer  site  for  a  cottage  among  mountains.  You 
could  anywhere  run  across  the  stream  on  the  rocks, 
and  its  constant  murmuring  would  quiet  the  passions 
of  mankind  forever.  Suddenly  the  road,  which  seemed 
aiming  for  the  mountain  side,  turned  short  to  the  left, 


202    A    WEEK   ON  THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

and  another  valley  opened,  concealing  the  former,  and 
of  the  same  character  with  it.  It  was  the  most  re- 
markable and  pleasing  scenery  I  had  ever  seen.  I 
found  here  a  few  mild  and  hospitable  inhabitants, 
who,  as  the  day  was  not  quite  spent,  and  I  was  anx- 
ious to  improve  the  light,  directed  me  four  or  five 
miles  further  on  my  way  to  the  dwelling  of  a  man 
whose  name  was  Rice,  who  occupied  the  last  and 
highest  of  the  valleys  that  lay  in  my  path,  and  who, 
they  said,  was  a  rather  rude  and  uncivil  man.  But, 
"What  is  a  foreign  country  to  those  who  have  science? 
Who  is  a  stranger  to  those  who  have  the  habit  of 
speaking  kindly?  "' 

At  length,  as  the  sun  was  setting  behind  the  moun- 
tains in  a  still  darker  and  more  solitary  vale,  I  reached 
the  dwelling  of  this  man.  Except  for  the  narrowness 
of  the  plain,  and  that  the  stones  were  solid  granite,  it 
was  the  counterpart  of  that  retreat  to  which  Belphoebe 
bore  the  wounded  Timias  ;  — 

"  in  a  pleasant  glade, 
With  mountains  round  about  environed, 
And  mighty  woods,  which  did  the  valley  shade, 
And  like  a  stately  theatre  it  made, 
Spreading  itself  into  a  spacious  plain ; 
And  in  the  midst  a  little  river  played 
Amongst  the  pumy  stones,  which  seemed  to  plain, 
With  gentle  murmur,  that  his  course  they  did  restrain." 

I  observed,  as  I  drew  near,  that  he  was  not  so  rude 
as  I  had  anticipated,  for  he  kept  many  cattle,  and  dogs 
to  watch  them,  and  I  saw  where  he  had  made  maple 
sugar  on  the  sides  of  the  mountains,  and  above  all 
distinguished  the  voices  of  children  mingling  with 
the  murmur  of  the  torrent  before  the  door.  As  I 
passed  his  stable  I  met  one  whom  I  supposed  to  be  a 


TUESDA  V.  203 

hired  man,  attending  to  his  cattle,  and  inquired  if 
they  entertained  travellers  at  that  house.  "  Some- 
times we  do,"  he  answered,  gruffly,  and  immediately 
went  to  the  farthest  stall  from  me,  and  I  perceived 
that  it  was  Rice  himself  whom  I  had  addressed.  But 
pardoning  this  incivility  to  the  wildness  of  the  scenery, 
I  bent  my  steps  to  the  house.  There  was  no  sign-post 
before  it,  nor  any  of  the  usual  invitations  to  the  trav- 
eller, though  I  saw  by  the  road  that  many  went  and 
came  there,  but  the  owner's  name  only  was  fastened 
to  the  outside,  a  sort  of  implied  and  sullen  invitation, 
as  I  thought.  I  passed  from  room  to  room  without 
meeting  any  one,  till  I  came  to  what  seemed  the 
guests'  apartment,  which  was  neat,  and  even  had  an 
air  of  refinement  about  it,  and  I  was  glad  to  find  a 
map  against  the  wall  which  would  direct  me  on  my 
journey  on  the  morrow.  At  length  I  heard  a  step  in 
a  distant  apartment,  which  was  the  first  I  had  entered, 
and  went  to  see  if  the  landlord  had  come  in ;  but  it 
proved  to  be  only  a  child,  one  of  those  whose  voices 
I  had  heard,  probably  his  son,  and  between  him  and 
me  stood  in  the  door-way  a  large  watch-dog,  which 
growled  at  me,  and  looked  as  if  he  would  presently 
spring,  but  the  boy  did  not  speak  to  him  ;  and  when 
I  asked  for  a  glass  of  water,  he  briefly  said,  "It  runs 
in  the  corner.'"  So  I  took  a  mug  from  the  counter 
and  went  out  of  doors,  and  searched  round  the  corner 
of  the  house,  but  could  find  neither  well  nor  spring, 
nor  any  water  but  the  stream  which  ran  all  along  the 
front.  I  came  back,  therefore,  and  setting  down  the 
mug,  asked  the  child  if  the  stream  was  good  to  drink  ; 
whereupon  he  seized  the  mug  and  going  to  the  corner 
of  the  room,  where  a  cool  spring  which  issued  from 
the  mountain  behind  trickled  through  a  pipe  into  the 


204    -^    WEEK   OX   THE    CONCORD  RIVER. 

apartment,  filled  it,  and  drank,  and  gave  it  to  me 
empty  again,  and  calling  to  the  dog,  rushed  out  of 
doors.  Ere  long  some  of  the  hired  men  made  their 
appearance,  and  drank  at  the  spring,  and  lazily  washed 
themselves  and  combed  their  hair  in  silence,  and  some 
sat  down  as  if  weary,  and  fell  asleep  in  their  seats. 
But  all  the  while  I  saw  no  women,  though  I  some- 
times heard  a  bustle  in  that  part  of  the  house  from 
which  the  spring  came. 

At  length  Rice  himself  came  in,  for  it  was  now 
dark,  with  an  ox  whip  in  his  hand,  breathing  hard, 
and  he  too  soon  settled  down  into  his  seat  not  far 
from  me,  as  if  now  that  his  day's  work  was  done  he 
had  no  further  to  travel,  but  only  to  digest  his  supper 
at  his  leisure.  When  I  asked  him  if  he  could  give 
me  a  bed,  he  said  there  was  one  ready,  in  such  a  tone 
as  implied  that  I  ought  to  have  known  it.  and  the  less 
said  about  that  the  better.  So  far  so  good.  And 
yet  he  continued  to  look  at  me  as  if  he  would  fain 
have  me  say  something  further  like  a  traveller.  I 
remarked,  that  it  was  a  wild  and  rugged  country  he 
inhabited,  and  worth  coming  many  miles  to  see. 
••  Not  so  very  rough  neither,''  said  he,  and  appealed 
to  his  men  to  bear  witness  to  the  breadth  and 
smoothness  of  his  fields,  which  consisted  in  all  of 
one  small  interval,  and  to  the  size  of  his  crops ;  ^-  and 
if  we  have  some  hills,''  added  he,  •"■  there  's  no  better 
pasturage  anywhere."  I  then  asked  if  this  place  was 
the  one  I  had  heard  of,  calling  it  by  a  name  I  had 
seen  on  the  map,  or  if  it  was  a  certain  other ;  and  he 
answered,  gruffly,  that  it  was  neither  the  one  nor  the 
other;  that  he  had  settled  it  and  cultivated  it,  and 
made  it  what  it  was,  and  I  could  know  nothing  about 
it.     Observing  some  guns  and  other  implements  of 


TUESDA  V.  205 

hunting  hanging  on  brackets  around  the  room,  and 
his  hounds  now  sleeping  on  the  floor,  I  took  occasion 
to  change  the  discourse,  and  inquired  if  there  was 
much  game  in  that  country,  and  he  answered  this 
question  more  graciously,  having  some  glimmering  of 
my  drift ;  but  when  I  inquired  if  there  were  any  bears, 
he  answered  impatiently,  that  he  was  no  more  in 
danger  of  losing  his  sheep  than  his  neighbors,  he  had 
tamed  and  civilized  that  region.  After  a  pause,  think- 
ing of  my  journey  on  the  morrow,  and  the  few  hours 
of  daylight  in  that  hollow  and  mountainous  country, 
which  would  require  me  to  be  on  my  way  betimes,  I 
remarked,  that  the  day  must  be  shorter  by  an  hour 
there  than  on  the  neighboring  plains ;  at  which  he 
gruffly  asked  what  I  knew  about  it,  and  affirmed  that 
he  had  as  much  daylight  as  his  neighbors  ;  he  ventured 
to  say,  the  days  were  longer  there  than  where  I  lived, 
as  I  should  find  if  I  stayed  ;  that  in  some  way,  I  could 
not  be  expected  to  understand  how,  the  sun  came 
over  the  mountains  half  an  hour  earlier,  and  stayed 
half  an  hour  later  there  than  on  the  neighboring 
plains.  —  And  more  of  like  sort  he  said.  He  was, 
indeed,  as  rude  as  a  fabled  satyr.  But  I  suffered  him 
to  pass  for  what  he  was,  for  why  should  I  quarrel 
with  nature?  and  was  even  pleased  at  the  discovery 
of  such  a  singular  natural  phenomenon.  I  dealt  with 
him  as  if  to  me  all  manners  were  indifferent,  and  he 
had  a  sweet  wild  way  with  him.  I  would  not  question 
Nature,  and  I  would  rather  have  him  as  he  was,  than 
as  I  would  have  him.  For  I  had  come  up  here  not 
for  sympathy,  or  kindness,  or  society,  but  for  novelty 
and  adventure,  and  to  see  what  Nature  had  produced 
here.  I  therefore  did  not  repel  his  rudeness,  but 
quite  innocently  welcomed  it  all,  and  knew  how  to 


206    .-/    WEEK   O.V   THE    CONCORD   RfVER. 

appreciate  it,  as  if  I  were  reading  in  an  old  drama  a 
part  well  sustained.  He  was  indeed  a  coarse  and 
sensual  man,  and.  as  I  have  said,  uncivil,  but  he  had 
his  just  quarrel  with  nature  and  mankind,  I  have  no 
doubt,  only  he  had  no  artificial  covering  to  his  ill 
humors.  He  was  earthy  enough,  but  yet  there  was 
good  soil  in  him,  and  even  a  long-suffering  Saxon 
probity  at  bottom.  If  you  could  represent  the  case 
to  him.  he  would  not  let  the  race  die  out  in  him.  like  a 
red  Indian. 

At  length  I  told  him  that  he  was  a  fortunate  man, 
and  I  trusted  that  he  was  grateful  for  so  much  light, 
and  rising,  said  I  would  take  a  lamp,  and  that  I  would 
pay  him  then  for  my  lodging,  for  I  expected  to  re- 
commence my  journey,  even  as  early  as  the  sun  rose 
in  his  country;  but  he  answered  in  haste,  and  this 
time  civilly,  that  I  should  not  fail  to  find  some  of  his 
household  stirring,  however  early,  for  they  were  no 
sluggards,  and  I  could  take  my  breakfast  with  them 
before  I  started  if  I  chose  ;  and  as  he  lighted  the  lamp 
I  detected  a  gleam  of  true  hospitality  and  ancient 
civility,  a  beam  of  pure  and  even  gentle  humanity 
from  his  bleared  and  moist  eyes.  It  was  a  look  more 
intimate  with  me,  and  more  explanatory,  than  any 
words  of  his  could  have  been  if  he  had  tried  to  his 
dying  day.  It  was  more  significant  than  any  Rice  of 
those  parts  could  even  comprehend,  and  long  antici- 
pated this  man's  culture,  —  a  glance  of  his  pure  genius, 
which  did  not  much  enlighten  him.  but  did  impress 
and  rule  him  for  the  moment,  and  faintly  constrain 
his  voice  and  manner.  He  cheerfully  led  the  way  to 
my  apartment,  stepping  over  the  limbs  of  his  men 
who  were  asleep  on  the  floor  in  an  intervening  cham- 
ber, and   showed   me  a  clean  and  comfortable   bed. 


TUESDA  Y.  207 

For  many  pleasant  hours,  after  the  household  was 
asleep,  I  sat  at  the  open  window,  for  it  was  a  sultry 
night,  and  heard  the  little  river 

"  Amongst  the  pumy  stones,  which  seemed  to  plain, 
With  gentle  murmur,  that  his  course  they  did  restrain," 

But  I  arose  as  usual  by  starlight  the  next  morning, 
before  my  host,  or  his  men,  or  even  his  dogs,  were 
awake ;  and  having  left  a  ninepence  on  the  counter, 
was  already  half  way  over  the  mountain  with  the  sun. 
before  they  had  broken  their  fast. 

Before  I  had  left  the  country  of  my  host,  while  the 
first  rays  of  the  sun  slanted  over  the  mountains,  as  I 
stopped  by  the  wayside  to  gather  some  raspberries,  a 
very  old  man,  not  far  from  a  hundred,  came  along 
with  a  milking  pail  in  his  hand,  and  turning  aside 
began  to  pluck  the  berries  near  me  ;  — 

"  his  reverend  locks 

In  comelye  curies  did  wave ; 
And  on  his  aged  temples  grew 

The  blossoms  of  the  grave."  — 

But  when  I  inquired  the  way,  he  answered  in  a  low, 
rough  voice,  without  looking  up  or  seeming  to  regard 
my  presence,  which  I  imputed  to  his  years  ;  and  pres- 
ently, muttering  to  himself,  he  proceeded  to  collect 
his  cows  in  a  neighboring  pasture ;  and  when  he  had 
again  returned  near  to  the  wayside,  he  suddenly 
stopped,  while  his  cows  went  on  before,  and,  un- 
covering his  head,  prayed  aloud  in  the  cool  morning 
air,  as  if  he  had  forgotten  this  exercise  before,  for 
his  daily  bread,  and  also  that  He  who  letteth  his  rain 
fall  on  the  just  and  on  the  unjust,  and  without  whom 
not  a  sparrow  falleth  to  the  ground,  would  not  neglect 


208    --/    WEEK   O.V   THE    COXCORD   RfVER. 

the  stranger  (meaning  me),  and  with  even  more  direct 
and  personal  applications,  though  mainly  according 
to  the  long  established  formula  common  to  lowlanders 
and  the  inhabitants  of  mountains.  When  he  had  done 
praying.  I  made  bold  to  ask  him  if  he  had  any  cheese 
in  his  hut  which  he  would  sell  me,  but  he  answered 
without  looking  up,  and  in  the  same  low  and  repul- 
sive voice  as  before,  that  they  did  not  make  any,  and 
went  to  milking.  It  is  written,  "The  stranger  who 
turneth  away  from  a  house  with  disappointed  hopes, 
leaveth  there  his  own  offences,  and  departeth,  taking 
with  him  all  the  good  actions  of  the  owner."* 

Being  now  fairly  in  the  stream  of  this  week's  com- 
merce, we  began  to  meet  with  boats  more  frequently, 
and  hailed  them  from  time  to  time  with  the  freedom 
of  sailors.  The  boatmen  appeared  to  lead  an  eas\ 
and  contented  life,  and  we  thought  that  we  should  pre- 
fer their  employment  ourselves  to  many  professions 
which  are  much  more  sought  after.  They  suggested 
how  few  circumstances  are  necessary  to  the  well-being 
and  serenity  of  man,  how  indifferent  all  employments 
are.  and  that  any  may  seem  noble  and  poetic  to  the 
eyes  of  men,  if  pursued  with  sufficient  buoyancy  and 
freedom.  With  liberty  and  pleasant  weather,  the 
simplest  occupation,  any  unquestioned  country  mode 
of  life  which  detains  us  in  the  open  air,  is  alluring. 
The  man  who  picks  peas  steadily  for  a  living  is  more 
than  respectable,  he  is  even  envied  by  his  shop-worn 
neighbors.  We  are  as  happy  as  the  birds  when  our 
Good  Genius  permits  us  to  pursue  any  outdoor  work 
without  a  sense  of  dissipation.  Our  pen-knife  glitters 
in  the  sun ;  our  voice  is  echoed  by  yonder  wood ;  if 
an  oar  drops,  we  are  fain  to  let  it  drop  again. 


TUESDA  Y.  209 

The  canal  boat  is  of  very  simple  construction, 
requiring  but  little  ship  timber,  and,  as  we  were  told, 
costs  about  two  hundred  dollars.  They  are  managed 
by  two  men.  In  ascending  the  stream  they  use  poles 
fourteen  or  fifteen  feet  long,  shod  with  iron,  walking 
about  one  third  the  length  of  the  boat  from  the  for- 
ward end.  Going  down,  they  commonly  keep  in  the 
middle  of  the  stream,  using  an  oar  at  each  end ;  or 
if  the  wind  is  favorable  they  raise  their  broad  sail, 
and  have  only  to  steer.  They  commonly  carry  down 
bricks  or  wood,  —  fifteen  or  sixteen  thousand  bricks, 
and  as  many  cords  of  wood,  at  a  time,  —  and  bring 
back  stores  for  the  country,  consuming  two  or  three 
days  each  way  between  Concord  and  Charlestown. 
They  sometimes  pile  the  wood  so  as  to  leave  a  shelter 
in  one  part  where  they  may  retire  from  the  rain.  One 
can  hardly  imagine  a  more  healthful  employment,  or 
one  more  favorable  to  contemplation  and  the  observa- 
tion of  nature.  Unlike  the  mariner,  they  have  the 
constantly  varying  panorama  of  the  shore  to  relieve 
the  monotony  of  their  labor,  and  it  seemed  to  us  that 
as  they  thus  glided  noiselessly  from  town  to  town, 
with  all  their  furniture  about  them,  for  their  very 
homestead  is  a  movable,  they  could  comment  on  the 
character  of  the  inhabitants  with  greater  advantage 
and  security  to  themselves  than  the  traveller  in  a 
coach,  who  would  be  unable  to  indulge  in  such 
broadsides  of  wit  and  humor  in  so  small  a  vessel,  for 
fear  of  the  recoil.  They  are  not  subject  to  great 
exposure,  like  the  lumberers  of  Maine,  in  any  weather, 
but  inhale  the  healthfullest  breezes,  being  slightly 
encumbered  with  clothing,  frequently  with  the  head 
and  feet  bare.  When  we  met  them  at  noon  as  they 
were  leisurely  descending  the  stream,  their  busy  com- 


2IO    -/    WEEK   ON   THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

merce  did  not  look  like  toil,  but  rather  like  some 
ancient  oriental  game  still  played  on  a  large  scale,  as 
the  game  of  chess,  for  instance,  handed  down  to  this 
generation.  From  morning  till  night,  unless  the  wind 
is  so  fair  that  his  single  sail  will  suffice  without  other 
labor  than  steering,  the  boatman  walks  backwards  and 
forwards  on  the  side  of  his  boat,  now  stooping  with 
his  shoulder  to  the  pole,  then  drawing  it  back  slowly 
to  set  it  again,  meanwhile  moving  steadily  forward 
through  an  endless  valley  and  an  ever-changing  scen- 
ery, now  distinguishing  his  course  for  a  mile  or  two, 
and  now  shut  in  by  a  sudden  turn  of  the  river  in  a 
small  woodland  lake.  All  the  phenomena  which  sur- 
round him  are  simple  and  grand,  and  there  is  some- 
thing impressive,  even  majestic,  in  the  very  motion 
he  causes,  which  will  naturally  be  communicated  to 
his  own  character,  and  he  feels  the  sfow  irresistible 
movement  under  him  with  pride,  as  if  it  were  his  own 
energy. 

The  news  spread  like  wild  fire  among  us  youths, 
when  formerly,  once  in  a  year  or  two,  one  of  these 
boats  came  up  the  Concord  River,  and  was  seen  steal- 
ing mysteriously  through  the  meadows  and  past  the 
village.  It  came  and  departed  as  silently  as  a  cloud, 
without  noise  or  dust,  and  was  witnessed  by  few. 
One  summer  day  this  huge  traveller  might  be  seen 
moored  at  some  meadow's  wharf,  and  another  sum- 
mer day  it  was  not  there.  Where  precisely  it  came 
from,  or  who  these  men  were  who  knew^  the  rocks  and 
soundings  better  than  we  who  bathed  there,  we  could 
never  tell.  We  knew  some  river's  bay  only,  but  they 
took  rivers  from  end  to  end.  They  were  a  sort  of 
fabulous  river-men  to  us.  It  was  inconceivable  by 
what   sort  of  mediation   any  mere   landsman   could 


TUESDA  V.  211 

hold  communication  with  them.  Would  they  heave 
to  to  gratify  his  wishes  ?  No,  it  was  favor  enough  to 
know  faintly  of  their  destination,  or  the  time  of  their 
possible  return.  I  have  seen  them  in  the  summer, 
when  the  stream  ran  low,  mowing  the  weeds  in  mid- 
channel,  and  with  havers'  jests  cutting  broad  swathes 
in  three  feet  of  water,  that  they  might  make  a  passage 
for  their  scow,  while  the  grass  in  long  windrows  was 
carried  down  the  stream,  undried  by  the  rarest  hay 
weather.  We  used  to  admire  unweariedly  how  their 
vessel  would  float,  like  a  huge  chip,  sustaining  so 
many  casks  of  lime,  and  thousands  of  bricks,  and  such 
heaps  of  iron  ore,  with  wheel-barrows  aboard,  —  and 
that  when  we  stepped  on  it,  it  did  not  yield  to  the 
pressure  of  our  feet.  It  gave  us  confidence  in  the 
prevalence  of  the  law  of  buoyancy,  and  we  imagined 
to  what  infinite  uses  it  might  be  put.  The  men 
appeared  to  lead  a  kind  of  life  on  it,  and  it  was  whis- 
pered that  they  slept  aboard.  Some  affirmed  that  it 
carried  sail,  and  that  such  winds  blew  here  as  filled 
the  sails  of  vessels  on  the  ocean ;  which  again  others 
much  doubted.  They  had  been  seen  to  sail  across 
our  Fair-Haven  bay  by  lucky  fishers  who  were  out, 
but  unfortunately  others  were  not  there  to  see.  We 
might  then  say  that  our  river  was  navigable,  —  why 
not  ?  In  after  years  I  read  in  print,  with  no  little 
satisfaction,  that  it  was  thought  by  some  that  with  a 
little  expense  in  removing  rocks  and  deepening  the 
channel,  "  there  might  be  a  profitable  inland  naviga- 
tion."    /then  lived  somewhere  to  tell  of. 

Such  is  Commerce,  which  shakes  the  cocoa-nut  and 
bread-fruit  tree  in  the  remotest  isle,  and  sooner  or 
later  dawns  on  the  duskiest  and  most  simple-minded 
savage.     If  we  may  be  pardoned  the  digression, — 


212    A    WEEK   Oy   THE   COXCORD   RIVER. 

who  can  help  being  affected  at  the  thought  of  the  very 
fine  and  slight,  but  positive  relation,  in  which  the 
savage  inhabitants  of  some  remote  isle  stand  to  the 
mysterious  white  mariner,  the  child  of  the  sun?  —  As 
if  we  were  to  have  dealings  with  an  animal  higher  in 
the  scale  of  being  than  ourselves.  It  is  a  barely  rec- 
ognized fact  to  the  natives  that  he  exists,  and  has  his 
home  far  away  somewhere,  and  is  glad  to  buy  their 
fresh  fruits  with  his  superfluous  commodities.  Under 
the  same  catholic  sun  glances  his  white  ship  over 
Pacific  waves  into  their  smooth  bays,  and  the  poor 
savage's  paddle  gleams  in  the  air. 

Man's  little  acts  are  grand, 
Beheld  from  land  to  land, 
There  as  they  lie  in  time, 
Within  their  native  clime. 

Ships  with  the  noon-tide  weigh, 

And  glide  before  its  ray, 

To  some  retired  bay. 

Their  haunt, 

Whence,  under  tropic  sun, 

Again  they  run, 

Bearing  gum  Senegal  and  Tragicant. 
For  this  was  ocean  meant. 
For  this  the  sun  was  sent. 
And  moon  was  lent. 
And  winds  in  distant  caverns  pent. 

Since  our  voyage  the  railroad  on  the  bank  has  been 
extended,  and  there  is  now  but  little  boating  on  the 
Merrimack.  All  kinds  of  produce  and  stores  were 
formerly  conveyed  by  water,  but  now  nothing  is  car- 
ried up  the  stream,  and  almost  wood  and  bricks  alone 
are  carried  down,  and  these  are  also  carried  on  the 
railroad.  The  locks  are  fast  wearing  out,  and  will 
soon  be  impassable,  since  the  tolls  will  not  pay  the 


TUESDAY.  213 

expense  of  repairing  them,  and  so  in  a  few  years 
there  will  be  an  end  of  boating  on  this  river.  The 
boating,  at  present,  is  principally  between  Merrimack 
and  Lowell,  or  Hooksett  and  Manchester.  They 
make  two  or  three  trips  from  Merrimack  to  Lowell 
and  back,  about  twenty-five  miles  each  way,  in  a  week, 
according  to  wind  and  weather.  The  boatman  comes 
singing  in  to  shore  late  at  night,  and  moors  his  empty 
boat,  and  gets  his  supper  and  lodging  in  some  house 
near  at  hand,  and  again  early  in  the  tnorning,  by  star- 
light, perhaps,  he  pushes  away  up  stream,  and,  by  a 
shout,  or  the  fragment  of  a  song,  gives  notice  of  his 
approach  to  the  lock-man,  with  whom  he  is  to  take 
his  breakfast.  If  he  gets  up  to  his  wood-pile  before 
noon  he  proceeds  to  load  his  boat,  with  the  help 
of  his  single  "  hand ''  and  is  on  his  way  down  again 
before  night.  When  he  gets  to  Lowell  he  unloads 
his  boat,  and  gets  his  receipt  for  his  cargo,  and  hav- 
ing heard  the  news  at  the  public  house  at  Middlesex 
or  elsewhere,  goes  back  with  his  empty  boat  and  his 
receipt  in  his  pocket  to  the  owner,  and  to  get  a  new 
load.  We  were  frequently  advertised  of  their  ap- 
proach by  some  faint  sound  behind  us,  and  looking 
round  saw  them  a  mile  off,  creeping  stealthily  up  the 
side  of  the  stream  like  alligators.  It  was  pleasant  to 
hail  these  sailors  of  the  Merrimack  from  time  to  time, 
and  learn  the  news  which  circulated  with  them.  We 
imagined  that  the  sun  shining  on  their  bare  heads 
had  stamped  a  liberal  and  public  character  on  their 
most  private  thoughts. 

The  open  and  sunny  interval  still  stretched  away 
from  the  river,  sometimes  by  two  or  more  terraces,  to 
the  distant  hill   country,  and  when   wc  climbed   the 


214    '^    WEEK   OX   THE    CONCORD  RIVER. 

bank  we  commonly  found  an  irregular  copse-wood 
skirting  the  river,  the  primitive  having  floated  down 
stream  long  ago  to  the  '•  King's  navy.''  Some- 
times w^e  saw  the  river  road  a  quarter  or  half  a  mile 
distant,  and  the  particolored  Concord  stage,  with  its 
cloud  of  dust,  its  van  of  earnest  travelling  faces,  and 
its  rear  of  dusty  trunks,  reminding  us  that  the  country 
had  its  places  of  rendezvous  for  restless  Yankee  men. 
There  dwelt  along  at  considerable  distances  on  this 
interval  a  quiet  agricultural  and  pastoral  people,  with 
every  house  its  well,  as  we  sometimes  proved,  and 
every  household,  though  never  so  still  and  remote  it 
appeared  in  the  noontide,  its  dinner  about  these  times. 
There  they  lived  on,  those  New  England  people, 
farmer  lives,  father  and  grand-father  and  great-grand- 
father, on  and  on  without  noise,  keeping  up  tradition, 
and  expecting,  beside  fair  weather  and  abundant 
harvests,  we  did  not  learn  what.  They  were  con- 
tented to  live,  since  it  was  so  contrived  for  them,  and 
where  their  lines  had  fallen.  — 

Our  uninquiring  corpses  lie  more  low 
Than  our  life's  curiosity  doth  go. 

Yet  these  men  had  no  need  to  travel  to  be  as  wise  as 
Solomon  in  all  his  glory,  so  similar  are  the  lives  of 
men  in  all  countries,  and  fraught  with  the  same 
homely  experiences.  One  half  the  world  knaws  how 
the  other  half  lives. 

About  noon  we  passed  a  small  village  in  Merrimack 
at  Thornton's  Ferry,  and  tasted  of  the  waters  of 
Naticook  Brook  on  the  same  side,  where  French  and 
his  companions,  whose  grave  we  saw  in  Dunstable, 
were  ambuscaded  by  the  Indians.  The  humble  vil- 
lage of  Litchfield,  with  its  steepleless  meeting-house. 


TUESDA  Y.  21  S 

stood  on  the  opposite  or  east  bank,  near  where  a 
dense  grove  of  willows  backed  by  maples  skirted  the 
shore.  There  also  we  noticed  some  shagbark  trees, 
which,  as  they  do  not  grow  in  Concord,  were  as 
strange  a  sight  to  us  as  the  palm  would  be,  whose 
fruit  only  we  have  seen.  Our  course  now  curved 
gracefully  to  the  north,  leaving  a  low  flat  shore  on  the 
Merrimack  side,  which  forms  a  sort  of  harbor  for 
canal  boats.  We  observed  some  fair  elms  and  par- 
ticularly large  and  handsome  white-maples  standing 
conspicuously  on  this  interval,  and  the  opposite  shore, 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  below,  was  covered  with  young 
elms  and  maples  six  inches  high,  which  had  probably 
sprung  from  the  seeds  which  had  been  washed  across. 
Some  carpenters  were  at  work  here  mending  a  scow 
on  the  green  and  sloping  bank.  The  strokes  of 
their  mallets  echoed  from  shore  to  shore,  and  up  and 
down  the  river,  and  their  tools  gleamed  in  the  sun  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  from  us,  and  we  realized  that  boat- 
building was  as  ancient  and  honorable  an  art  as  agri- 
culture, and  that  there  might  be  a  naval  as  well  as  a 
pastoral  life.  The  whole  history  of  commerce  was 
made  manifest  in  that  scow  turned  bottom  upward  on 
the  shore.  Thus  did  men  begin  to  go  down  upon  the 
sea  in  ships.  We  thought  that  it  would  be  well  for 
the  traveller  to  build  his  boat  on  the  bank  of  a  stream, 
instead  of  finding  a  ferry  or  a  bridge.  In  the  Adven- 
tures of  Henry  the  fur-trader,  it  is  pleasant  to  read 
that  when  with  his  Indians  he  reached  the  shore  ol 
Ontario,  they  consumed  two  days  in  making  two 
canoes  of  the  bark  of  the  elm  tree,  in  which  to  trans- 
port themselves  to  Fort  Niagara.  It  is  a  worthy 
incident  in  a  journey,  a  delay  as  good  as  much  rapid 
travelling.     A  good  share  of  our  interest  in  Xeno- 


2l6    .4    WEEK   OX   THE    CONCORD  RIVER. 

phon's  story  of  his  retreat  is  in  the  manoeuvres  to  get 
the  army  safely  over  the  rivers,  whether  on  rafts 
of  logs  or  fagots,  or  on  sheep-skins  blown  up.  And 
where  could  they  better  afford  to  tarry  meanwhile 
than  on  the  banks  of  a  river? 

As  we  glided  past  at  a  distance,  these  outdoor 
workmen  appeared  to  have  added  some  dignity  to 
their  labor  by  its  very  publicness.  It  was  a  part  of 
the  industry  of  nature,  like  the  work  of  hornets  and 
mud-wasps.  — 

The  waves  slowly  beat, 

Just  to  keep  the  noon  sweet, 

And  no  sound  is  floated  o'er, 

Save  the  mallet  on  shore, 

Which  echoing  on  high 

Seems  a-caulking  the  sky. 

The  haze,  the  sun's  dust  of  travel,  had  a  lethean  influ- 
ence on  the  land  and  its  inhabitants,  and  all  creatures 
resigned  themselves  to  float  upon  the  inappreciable 
tides  of  nature. 

Woof  of  the  sun,  ethereal  gauze, 
Woven  of  Nature's  richest  stuffs, 
Visible  heat,  air-water,  and  dry  sea. 
Last  conquest  of  the  eye ; 
Toil  of  the  day  displayed,  sun-dust, 
Aerial  surf  upon  the  shores  of  earth, 
Ethereal  estuary,  frith  of  light. 
Breakers  of  air,  billows  of  heat. 
Fine  summer  spray  on  inland  seas; 
Bird  of  the  sun,  transparent-winged, 
Owlet  of  noon,  soft-pinioned, 
From  heath  or  stubble  rising  without  song  ; 
Establish  thy  serenity  o'er  the  fields. 

The  routine  which  is  in  the  sunshine  and  the  finest 
days,   as    that  which   has    conquered    and    prevailed, 


TUESDA  V.  2iy 

commends  itself  to  us  by  its  very  antiquity  and  appar- 
ent solidity  and  necessity.  Our  weakness  needs  it, 
and  our  strength  uses  it.  We  cannot  draw  on  our 
boots  without  bracing  ourselves  against  it.  If  there 
were  but  one  erect  and  solid  standing  tree  in  the 
woods,  all  creatures  would  go  to  rub  against  it  and 
make  sure  of  their  footing.  During  the  many  hours 
which  we  spend  in  this  waking  sleep,  the  hand  stands 
still  on  the  face  of  the  clock,  and  we  grow  like  corn 
in  the  night.  Men  are  as  busy  as  the  brooks  or  bees, 
and  postpone  everything  to  their  busyness ;  as  car- 
penters discuss  politics  between  the  strokes  of  the 
hammer  while  they  are  shingling  a  roof. 

This  noontide  was  a  fit  occasion  to  make  some 
pleasant  harbor,  and  there  read  the  journal  of  some 
voyageur  like  ourselves,  not  too  moral  nor  inquisitive, 
and  which  would  not  disturb  the  noon  ;  or  else  some 
old  classic,  the  very  flower  of  all  reading,  which  we 
had  postponed  to  such  a  season 

"  Of  Syrian  peace,  immortal  leisure." 

But,  alas,  our  chest,  like  the  cabin  of  a  coaster,  con- 
tained only  its  well-thumbed  Navigator  for  all  litera- 
ture, and  we  were  obliged  to  draw  on  our  memory  for 
these  things.  We  naturally  remembered  Alexander 
Henry's  Adventures  here,  as  a  sort  of  classic  among 
books  of  American  travel.  It  contains  scenery  and 
rough  sketching  of  men  and  incidents  enough  to 
inspire  poets  for  many  years,  and  to  my  fancy  is  as 
full  of  sounding  names  as  any  page  of  history,  —  Lake 
Winnipeg,  Hudson's  Bay,  Ottaway,  and  portages  in- 
numerable ;  Chipeways,  Gens  de  Terres,  Les  Pilleurs, 
The  Weepers;   with  reminiscences  of  Hearne's  jour- 


2l8     A   I  FEE  A'   OX   THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

ney,  and  the  like  :  an  immense  and  shaggy  but  sincere 
country  summer  and  winter,  adorned  with  chains  of 
lakes  and  rivers,  covered  with  snows,  with  hemlocks 
and  fir  trees.  There  is  a  naturalness,  an  unpretend- 
ing and  cold  life  in  this  traveller,  as  in  a  Canadian 
winter,  what  life  was  preserved  through  low  tempera- 
tures and  frontier  dangers  by  furs  within  a  stout  heart. 
He  has  truth  and  moderation  worthy  of  the  father  of 
history,  which  belong  only  to  an  intimate  experience, 
and  he  does  not  defer  too  much  to  literature.  The 
unlearned  traveller  may  quote  his  single  line  from  the 
poets  with  as  good  right  as  the  scholar.  He  too  may 
speak  of  the  stars,  for  he  sees  them  shoot  perhaps 
when  the  astronomer  does  not.  The  good  sense  of 
this  author  is  very  conspicuous.  He  is  a  traveller 
who  does  not  exaggerate,  but  writes  for  the  informa- 
tion of  his  readers,  for  science  and  for  history.  His 
story  is  told  with  as  much  good  faith  and  directness 
as  if  it  were  a  report  to  his  brother  traders,  or  the 
Directors  of  the  Hudson  Bay  Company,  and  is  fitly 
dedicated  to  Sir  Joseph  Banks.  It  reads  like  the 
argument  to  a  great  poem  on  the  primitive  state  of 
the  country  and  its  inhabitants,  and  the  reader  imag- 
ines what  in  each  case  with  the  invocation  of  the 
Muse  might  be  sung,  and  leaves  off  with  suspended 
interest,  as  if  the  full  account  were  to  follow.  In  what 
school  was  this  fur-trader  educated  ?  He  seems  to 
travel  the  immense  snowy  country  with  such  purpose 
only  as  the  reader  who  accompanies  him,  and  to  the 
latter's  imagination,  it  is.  as  it  were,  momentarily  cre- 
ated to  be  the  scene  of  his  adventures.  What  is  most 
interesting  and  valuable  in  it.  however,  is  not  the  ma- 
terials for  the  history  of  Pontiac.  or  Braddock.  or  the 
North  West,  which  it  furnishes  :  not  the  annals  of  the 


TUESDAY.  219 

country,  but  the  natural  facts,  or  pej-etmials,  which  are 
ever  without  date.  When  out  of  history  the  truth 
shall  be  extracted,  it  will  have  shed  its  dates  like 
withered  leaves. 

The  Souhegan,  or  Crooked  river,  as  some  translate 
it,  comes  in  from  the  west  about  a  mile  and  a  half 
above  Thornton's  Ferry.  Babboosuck  Brook  empties 
into  it  near  its  mouth.  There  are  said  to  be  some  of 
the  finest  water  privileges  in  the  country  still  unim- 
proved on  the  former  stream,  at  a  short  distance  from 
the  Merrimack.  One  spring  morning,  March  22,  in 
the  year  1677,  an  incident  occurred  on  the  banks 
of  the  river  here,  which  is  interesting  to  us  as  a  slight 
memorial  of  an  interview  between  two  ancient  tribes  of 
men,  one  of  which  is  now  extinct,  while  the  other, 
though  it  is  still  represented  by  a  miserable  remnant, 
has  long  since  disappeared  from  its  ancient  hunting 
grounds.  A  Mr.  James  Parker  at  "Mr.  Hinchmanne\s 
farme  ner  Meremack,"  wrote  thus  "  to  the  Honred 
Governer  and  Council  at  Bostown,  Hast,  Post  Hasty 

"  Sagamore  Wanalancet  come  this  morning  to  in- 
forme  me,  and  then  went  to  Mr.  Tyng's  to  informe 
him,  that  his  son  being  on  ye  other  sid  of  Meremack 
river  over  against  Souhegan  upon  the  22  day  of  this 
instant,  about  tene  of  the  clock  in  the  morning,  he 
discovered  15  Indians  on  this  sid  the  river,  which  he 
soposed  to  be  Mohokes  by  ther  spech.  He  called 
to  them  ;  they  answered,  but  he  could  not  understand 
ther  spech  ;  and  he  having  a  conow  ther  in  the  river, 
he  went  to  breck  his  conow  that  they  might  not  have 
ani  ues  of  it.  In  the  mean  time  they  shot  about 
thirty   guns    at    him,  and   he    being   much    frighted 


220     A    WEEK   OX   THE    CONCORD  RIVER. 

fled,  and  come  home  forthwith  to  Nahamcock,  [Paw- 
tucket  Falls  or  Lowell]  wher  ther  wigowames  now 
stand.'' 

Penacooks  and  Mohawks  !  nbiqiie  gentium  sunt  ? 
Where  are  they  now  ?  —  In  the  year  1670,  a  Mohawk 
warrior  scalped  a  Naamkeak  or  Wamesit  Indian 
maiden  near  where  Lowell  now  stands.  She,  how- 
ever, recovered.  Even  as  late  as  1685,  John  Hogkins. 
a  Penacook  Indian,  who  describes  his  grand-father  as 
having  lived  "  at  place  called  Malamake  rever,  other 
name  chef  Natukkog  and  Panukkog,  that  one  rever 
great  many  names,"'  wrote  thus  to  the  governor :  — 


"May  15th.  1685. 
••  Honor  governor  my  friend,  — 

"'  You  my  friend  I  desire  your  worship  and  your 
power,  because  I  hope  you  can  do  som  great  matters 
this  one.  I  am  poor  and  naked  and  I  have  no  men 
at  my  place  because  I  afraid  allwayes  Mohogs  he  will 
kill  me  every  day  and  night.  If  your  worship  when 
please  pray  help  me  you  no  let  Mohogs  kill  me  at 
my  place  at  Malamake  river  called  Pannukkog  and 
Natukkog,  I  will  submit  your  worship  and  your  power. 
—  And  now  I  want  pouder  and  such  alminishon  shatt 
and  guns,  because  I  have  forth  at  my  hom  and  I  plant 
theare. 

"This  all  Indian  hand,  but  pray  you  do  consider 
your  humble  servant.  John  Hogkins." 

Signed  also  by  Simon  Detogkom,  King  Hary,  Sam 
Linis,  Mr.  Jorge  Rodunnonukgus,  John  Owamosim- 
min,  and  nine  other  Indians,  with  their  marks  against 
their  names. 


TUESDAY.  221 

But  now,  one  hundred  and  fifty-four  years  having 
elapsed  since  the  date  of  this  letter,  we  went  unalarmed 
on  our  way,  without "  breaking ''  our  '"  conow,"  reading 
the  New  England  Gazetteer,  and  seeing  no  traces  of 
"  Mohogs  "•  on  the  banks. 

The  Souhegan,  though  a  rapid  river,  seemed  to- 
day to  have  borrowed  its  character  from  the  noon. 

Where  gleaming  fields  of  haze 
Meet  the  voyageur's  gaze, 
And  above,  the  heated  air 
Seems  to  make  a  rivei  there. 
The  pines  stand  up  with  pride 
By  the  Souhegan's  side, 
And  the  hemlock  and  the  larch 
With  their  triumphal  arch 
Are  waving  o'er  its  march 

To  the  sea. 
No  wind  stirs  its  waves, 
But  the  spirits  of  the  braves 

Hov'ring  o'er. 
Whose  antiquated  graves 
Its  still  water  laves 

On  the  shore. 
With  an  Indian's  stealthy  tread 
It  goes  sleeping  in  its  bed, 
Without  joy  or  griet. 
Or  the  rustle  of  a  leaf, 
W' ithout  a  ripple  or  a  billow, 
Or  the  sigh  of  a  willow, 
From  the  Lyndeboro'  hills 
To  the  Merrimack  mills. 
W^ith  a  louder  din 
Did  its  current  begin. 
When  melted  the  snow 
On  the  far  mountain's  brow. 
And  the  drops  came  togetiier 
In  that  rainy  weather. 
Experienced  river, 


222    -^    WEEK   ON   THE    COXCORD   RIVER. 

Hast  thou  flowed  forever  ? 

Souhegan  soundeth  old, 

But  the  half  is  not  told, 

What  names  hast  thou  borne 

In  the  ages  far  gone, 

When  the  Xanthus  and  Meander 

Commenced  to  wander. 

Ere  the  black  bear  haunted 

Thy  red  forest-floor. 
Or  Nature  had  planted 

The  pines  by  thy  shore. 

During  the  heat  of  the  day,  we  rested  on  a  large 
island  a  mile  above  the  mouth  of  this  river,  pastured 
by  a  herd  of  cattle,  with  steep  banks  and  scattered 
elms  and  oaks,  and  a  sufficient  channel  for  canal  boats 
on  each  side.  When  we  made  a  fire  to  boil  some  rice 
for  our  dinner,  the  flames  spreading  amid  the  dry 
grass,  and  the  smoke  curling  silently  upward  and  cast- 
ing grotesque  shadows  on  the  ground  seemed  phenom- 
ena of  the  noon,  and  we  fancied  that  we  progressed  up 
the  stream  without  effort,  and  as  naturally  as  the  wind 
and  tide  went  down,  not  outraging  the  calm  days  by 
unworthy  bustle  or  impatience.  The  woods  on  the 
neighboring  shore  were  alive  with  pigeons,  which 
were  moving  south  looking  for  mast,  but  now,  like 
ourselves,  spending  their  noon  in  the  shade.  We 
could  hear  the  slight  wiry  winnowing  sound  of  their 
wings  as  they  changed  their  roosts  from  time  to  time, 
and  their  gentle  and  tremulous  cooing.  They  so- 
journed with  us  during  the  noontide,  greater  travellers 
far  than  we.  You  may  frequently  discover  a  single 
pair  sitting  upon  the  lower  branches  of  the  white  pine 
in  the  depths  of  the  wood,  at  this  hour  of  the  day. 
so  silent  and  solitary,  and  with  such  a  hermit-like 
appearance,  as  if  they  had  never  strayed  beyond  its 


TUESDA  V.  223 

skirts,  while  the  acorn  which  was  gathered  in  the 
forests  of  Maine  is  still  undigested  in  their  crops. 
We  obtained  one  of  these  handsome  birds,  which 
lingered  too  long  upon  its  perch,  and  plucked  and 
broiled  it  here  with  some  other  game,  to  be  carried 
along  for  our  supper ;  for  beside  the  provisions  which 
we  carried  wdth  us,  we  depended  mainly  on  the  river 
and  forest  for  our  supply.  It  is  true,  it  did  not  seem 
to  be  putting  this  bird  to  its  right  use,  to  pluck  off  its 
feathers,  and  extract  its  entrails,  and  broil  its  carcass 
on  the  coals  ;  but  we  heroically  persevered,  neverthe- 
less, waiting  for  farther  information.  The  same  re- 
gard for  Nature  which  excited  our  sympathy  for  her 
creatures,  nerved  our  hands  to  carry  through  what  we 
had  begun.  For  we  would  be  honorable  to  the  party 
we  deserted ;  we  would  fulfil  fate,  and  so  at  length, 
perhaps,  detect  the  secret  innocence  of  these  inces- 
sant tragedies  which  Heaven  allows.  — 

"  Too  quick  resolves  do  resolution  wrong, 
What,  part  so  soon  to  be  divorced  so  long  ? 
Things  to  be  done  are  long  to  be  debated  ; 
Heaven  is  not  day'd,  Repentance  is  not  dated." 

We  are  double-edged  blades,  and  every  time  we  whet 
our  virtue  the  return  stroke  straps  our  vice.  Where  is 
the  skilful  swordsman  who  can  give  clean  wounds, 
and  not  rip  up  his  work  with  the  other  edge  ? 

Nature  herself  has  not  provided  the  most  graceful 
end  for  her  creatures.  What  becomes  of  all  these 
birds  that  people  the  air  and  forest  for  our  solace- 
ment  ?  The  sparrows  seem  always  chipper,  never 
infirm.  We  do  not  see  their  bodies  lie  about;  yet 
there  is  a  tragedy  at  the  end  of  each  one  of  their 
lives.     They  must  perish  miserably  ;  not  one  of  them 


224    ^-^    WEEK   OX   THE    COXCORD   RIVER. 

is  translated.  True.  •'  not  a  sparrow  falleth  to  the 
ground  without  our  Heavenly  Father's  knowledge,'' 
but  they  do  fall,  nevertheless. 

The  carcasses  of  some  poor  squirrels,  however,  the 
same  that  frisked  so  merrily  in  the  morning,  which 
we  had  skinned  and  embowelled  for  our  dinner,  we 
abandoned  in  disgust,  with  tardy  humanity,  as  too 
wretched  a  resource  for  any  but  starving  men.  It 
was  to  perpetuate  the  practice  of  a  barbarous  era.  If 
they  had  been  larger,  our  crime  had  been  less.  Their 
small  red  bodies,  little  bundles  of  red  tissue,  mere 
gobbets  of  venison,  would  not  have  "fattened  fire." 
With  a  sudden  impulse  we  threw  them  away,  and 
washed  our  hands,  and  boiled  some  rice  for  our  din- 
ner.'^ '•  Behold  the  difference  between  the  one  who 
eateth  flesh,  and  him  to  whom  it  belonged  !  The 
hrst  hath  a  momentary  enjoyment,  whilst  the  latter  is 
deprived  of  existence !  " —  '•  Who  could  commit  so  great 
a  crime  against  a  poor  animal,  who  is  fed  only  by 
the  herbs  which  grow  wild  in  the  woods,  and  whose 
belly  is  burnt  up  with  hunger  ?  "  We  remembered  a 
picture  of  mankind  in  the  hunter  age,  chasing  hares 
down  the  mountains,  O  me  miserable!  Yet  sheep  and 
oxen  are  but  larger  squirrels,  whose  hides  are  saved 
and  meat  is  salted,  whose  souls  perchance  are  not  so 
large  in  proportion  to  their  bodies. 

There  should  always  be  some  flowering  and  matur- 
ing of  the  fruits  of  nature  in  the  cooking  process. 
Some  simple  dishes  recommend  themselves  to  our 
imaginations  as  well  as  palates.  In  parched  corn, 
for  instance,  there  is  a  manifest  sympathy  between  the 
bursting  seed  and  the  more  perfect  developments  of 
vegetable  life.  It  is  a  perfect  flower  with  its  petals, 
like  the  houstonia  or  anemone.     On  mv  warm  hearth 


TUESDAY.  225 

these  cerealian  blossoms  expanded ;  here  is  the  bank 
whereon  they  grew.  Perhaps  some  such  visible  bless- 
ing would  always  attend  the  simple  and  wholesome 
repast. 

Here  was  that  "  pleasant  harbor  '^  which  we  had 
sighed  for,  where  the  weary  voyageur  could  read  the 
journal  of  some  other  sailor,  whose  bark  had  plowed, 
perchance,  more  famous  and  classic  seas.  At  the 
tables  of  the  gods,  after  feasting  follow  music  and 
song ;  we  will  recline  now  under  these  island  trees, 
and  for  our  minstrel  call  on 

ANACREON. 

"  Nor  has  he  ceased  his  charming  song,  but  still  that  lyre, 
Though  he  is  dead,  sleeps  not  in  Hades." 

Sirno/? ides'  Epigram  on  Anacreon. 

I  lately  met  with  an  old  volume  from  a  London  book- 
shop, containing  the  Greek  Minor  Poets,  and  it  was  a 
pleasure  to  read  once  more  only  the  words,  —  Orpheus, 
—  Linus,  —  Musaeus,  —  those  faint  poetic  sounds  and 
echoes  of  a  name,  dying  away  on  the  ears  of  us  mod- 
ern men ;  and  those  hardly  more  substantial  sounds, 
Mimnermus  —  Ibycus  —  Alcseus  —  Stesichorus  —  Me- 
nander.  They  lived  not  in  vain.  We  can  converse 
with  these  bodiless  tames  without  reserve  or  person- 
ality. 

I  know  of  no  studies  so  composing  as  those  of  the 
classical  scholar.  When  we  have  sat  down  to  them, 
life  seems  as  still  and  serene  as  if  it  were  very  far  off, 
and  I  believe  it  is  not  habitually  seen  from  any  com- 
mon platform  so  truly  and  unexaggerated  as  in  the 
light  of  literature.     In  serene  hours  we  contemplate  the 


226    A    WEEK   OX   THE    COXCOKD  RIVER. 

tour  of  the  Greek  and  Latin  authors  with  more 
pleasure  than  the  traveller  does  the  fairest  scenery 
of  Greece  or  Italy.  Where  shall  we  find  a  more  re- 
fined society  ?  That  highway  down  from  Homer  and 
Hesiod  to  Horace  and  Juvenal  is  more  attractive  than 
the  Appian,  Reading  the  classics,  or  conversing 
with  those  old  Greeks  and  Latins  in  their  surviving 
works,  is  like  walking  amid  the  stars  and  constella- 
tions, a  high  and  by  way  serene  to  travel.  Indeed, 
the  true  scholar  will  be  not  a  little  of  an  astronomer 
in  his  habits.  Distracting  cares  will  not  be  allowed 
to  obstruct  the  field  of  his  vision,  for  the  higher 
regions  of  literature,  like  astronomy,  are  above  storm 
and  darkness. 

Bwt  passing  by  these  rumors  of  bards,  let  us  pause 
for  a  moment  at  the  Teian  poet. 

There  is  something  strangely  modern  about  him. 
He  is  very  easily  turned  into  English.  Is  it  that  our 
lyric  poets  have  resounded  only  that  lyre,  which  would 
sound  only  light  subjects,  and  which  Simonides  tells 
us  does  not  sleep  in  Hades?  His  odes  are  like  gems 
of  pure  ivory.  They  possess  an  ethereal  and  evanes- 
cent beauty  like  summer  evenings,  o  xp^  ^^  voeti/  voov 
avOa,  which  you  must  perceive  with  the  flcnuer  of  the 
Diind,  —  and  show  how  slight  a  beauty  could  be  ex- 
pressed. You  have  to  consider  them,  as  the  stars  of 
lesser  magnitude,  with  the  side  of  the  eye,  and  look 
aside  from  them  to  behold  them.  They  charm  us  by 
their  serenity  and  freedom  from  .exaggeration  and 
passion,  and  by  a  certain  flowerlike  beauty,  which 
does  not  propose  itself,  but  must  be  approached  and 
studied  like  a  natural  object.  But  perhaps  their  chief 
merit  consists  in  the  lightness  and  yet  security  of  their 
tread ; 


TUESDA  V.  227 

"  The  young  and  tender  stalk 
Ne'er  bends  when  ^/ley  do  walk." 

True,  our  nerves  are  never  strung  by  them;  — it  is 
too  constantly  the  sound  of  the  lyre,  and  never  the 
note  of  the  trumpet ;  but  they  are  not  gross,  as  has 
been  presumed,  but  always  elevated  above  the  sensual. 

Perhaps  these  are  the  best  that  have  come  down 
to  us. 

ON   HIS   LYRE. 

I  wish  to  sing  the  Atridae, 

And  Cadmus  I  wish  to  sing ; 

But  my  lyre  sounds 

Only  love  with  its  chords. 

Lately  I  changed  the  strings 

And  all  the  h're  ; 

And  I  began  to  sing  the  labors 

Of  Hercules  ;  but  my  lyre 

Resounded  loves. 

Farewell,  henceforth,  for  me. 

Heroes!  for  my  lyre 

Sings  only  loves. 

TO   A  SWALLOW. 

Thou  indeed,  dear  swallow. 
Yearly  going  and  coming, 
In  summer  weavcst  thy  nest, 
And  in  winter  go'st  disappearing 
Either  to  Nile  or  to  Memphis. 
But  Love  always  weaveth 
His  nest  in  my  heart.  *  *  * 


ON   A   SILVER   CUP. 

Turning  the  silver, 
Vulcan,  make  for  me. 
Not  indeed  a  panoply, 


228    .-i    WEEK   OX   THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 


For  what  are  battles  to  me  ? 

But  a  hollow  cup, 

As  deep  as  thou  canst. 

And  make  for  me  in  it 

Neither  stars,  nor  wagons, 

Nor  sad  Orion ; 

What  are  the  Pleiades  to  me  ? 

What  the  shining  Bootes  ? 

Make  vines  for  me, 

And  clusters  of  grapes  in  it, 

And  of  gold  Love  and  Bathyllus 

Treading  the  grapes 

With  the  fair  Lyaeus. 


ON    HIMSELF. 

Thou  sing'st  the  affairs  of  Thebes 

And  he  the  battles  of  Troy, 

But  I  of  my  own  defeats. 

No  horse  have  wasted  me, 

Nor  foot,  nor  ships  ; 

But  a  new  and  different  host, 

From  eyes  smiting  me. 


TO  A    DOVE. 

Lovely  dove, 

Whence,  whence  dost  thou  fly  ? 

Whence,  running  on  air, 

Dost  thou  waft  and  diffuse 

So  many  sweet  ointments  ? 

Wlio  art  ?     What  thy  errand  ?  — 

Anacreon  sent  me 

To  a  boy,  to  Bathyllus, 

Who  lately  is  ruler  and  tyrant  of  all, 

Cythere  has  sold  me 

For  one  little  song. 

And  I  'm  doing  this  service 

For  Anacreon. 

And  now,  as  you  see, 


TUESDAY.  229 

I  bear  letters  from  him. 

And  he  says  that  directly 

He  'II  make  me  free, 

But  though  he  release  me, 

His  slave  I  will  tarry  with  him. 

For  why  should  I  fly 

Over  mountains  and  fields, 

And  perch  upon  trees, 

Eating  some  wild  thing  ? 

Now  indeed  I  eat  bread, 

Plucking  it  from  the  hands 

Of  Anacreon  himself; 

And  he  gives  me  to  drink 

The  wine  which  he  tastes, 

And  drinking,  I  dance. 

And  shadow  my  master's 

Face  with  my  wings  ; 

And,  going  to  rest, 

On  the  lyre  itself  I  sleep. 

That  is  all ;  get  thee  gone. 

Thou  hast  made  me  more  talkative, 

Man,  than  a  crow. 


ON   LOVE. 

Love  walking  swiftly, 

With  hyacinthine  staff, 

Bade  me  to  take  a  run  with  him ; 

And  hastening  through  swift  torrents, 

And  woody  places,  and  over  precipices, 

A  water-snake  stung  me. 

And  my  heart  leaped  up  to 

My  mouth,  and  I  should  have  fainted; 

But  Love  fanning  my  brows 

With  his  soft  wings,  said, 

Surely,  thou  art  not  able  to  love. 


ON   WOMEN. 

Nature  has  given  horns 

To  bulls,  and  hoofs  to  horses, 


230    ^    WEEK   0\    THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

Swiftness  to  hares, 

To  lions  yawning  teeth, 

To  fishes  swimming, 

To  birds  flight, 

To  men  wisdom. 

For  woman  she  had  nothing  beside; 

What  then  does  she  give  ?     Beauty,  — 

Instead  of  all  shields, 

Instead  of  all  spears ; 

And  she  conquers  even  iron 

And  fire,  who  is  beautiful. 

OX    LOVERS. 

Horses  have  the  mark 

Of  fire  on  their  sides. 

And  some  have  distinguished 

The  Parthian  men  by  their  crests; 

So  I,  seeing  lovers. 

Know  them  at  once, 

For  they  have  a  certain  slight 

Brand  on  their  hearts. 

TO   A   SWALLOW. 

What  dost  thou  wish  me  to  do  to  thee  — ■ 

What,  thou  loquacious  swallow  ? 

Dost  thou  wish  me  taking  thee 

Thy  light  pinions  to  clip  ? 

Or  rather  to  pluck  out 

Thy  tongue  from  within. 

As  that  Tereus  did  ? 

Why  with  thy  notes  in  the  dawn 

Hast  thou  plundered  Bathyllus 

From  mv  beautiful  dreams  ? 


TO  A  COLT. 


Thracian  colt,  why  at  me 
Looking  aslant  with  thy  eyes. 


TUESDA  V.  23  T 


Dost  thou  cruelly  flee, 
And  think  that  I  know  nothing  wise  ? 
Know  I  could  well 
Put  the  bridle  on  thee, 
And  holding  the  reins,  turn 
Round  the  bounds  of  the  course. 
But  now  thou  browsest  the  meads, 
And  gambolling  lightly  dost  play. 
For  thou  hast  no  skillful  horseman 
Mounted  upon  thy  back. 


CUPID   WOUNDED. 

Love  once  among  roses 

Saw  not 

A  sleeping  bee,  but  was  stung ; 

And  being  wounded  in  the  finger 

Of  his  hand,  cried  for  pain. 

Running  as  well  as  flying 

To  the  beautiful  Venus, 

I  am  killed,  mother,  said  he, 

I  am  killed,  and  I  die. 

A  little  serpent  has  stung  me, 

Winged,  which  they  call 

A  bee  —  the  husbandmen. 

And  she  said,  If  the  sting 

Of  a  bee  afflicts  you, 

How,  think  you,  are  they  afflicted, 

Love,  whom  you  smite  ? 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  for  we  had  lingered  long, 
on  the  island,  we  raised  our  sail  for  the  first  time, 
and  for  a  short  hour  the  south-west  wind  was  our 
ally;  but  it  did  not  please  Heaven  to  abet  us  long. 
With  one  sail  raised  we  swept  slowly  up  the  eastern 
side  of  the  stream,  steering  clear  of  the  rocks,  while 
from  the  top  of  a  hill  which  formed  the  opposite 
bank,  some  lumberers  were  rolling  down  timber   to 


232    A    WEEK   ON   THE    CONCORD  RIVER. 

be  rafted  down  the  stream.  We  could  see  their  axes 
and  levers  gleaming  in  the  sun,  and  the  logs  came 
down  with  a  dust  and  a  rumbling  sound,  which  was 
reverberated  through  the  woods  beyond  us  on  our 
side,  like  the  roar  of  artillery.  But  Zephyr  soon  took 
us  out  of  sight  and  hearing  of  this  commerce.  Hav- 
ing passed  Read's  Ferry,  and  another  island  called 
McGaw's  Island,  we  reached  some  rapids  called 
Moore's  Falls,  and  entered  on  '•  that  section  of  the 
river,  nine  miles  in  extent,  converted,  by  law,  into 
the  Union  Canal,  comprehending  in  that  space  six 
distinct  falls :  at  each  of  which,  and  at  several  inter- 
mediate places,  work  has  been  done.*'  After  pass- 
ing Moore's  Falls  by  means  of  locks,  we  again  had 
recourse  to  our  oars,  and  went  merrily  on  our  way, 
driving  the  small  sand-piper  from  rock  to  rock  before 
us,  and  sometimes  rowing  near  enough  to  a  cottage 
on  the  bank,  though  they  were  few  and  far  between, 
to  see  the  sun-flowers,  and  the  seed  vessels  of  the 
poppy,  like  small  goblets  filled  with  the  water  of 
Lethe,  before  the  door,  but  without  disturbing  the 
sluggish  household  behind.  Thus  we  held  on,  sail- 
ing or  dipping  our  way  along  with  the  paddle  up  this 
broad  river,  —  smooth  and  placid,  flowing  over  con- 
cealed rocks,  where  we  could  see  the  pickerel  lying 
low  in  the  transparent  water,  —  eager  to  double  some 
distant  cape,  to  make  some  great  bend  as  in  the 
life  of  man,  and  see  what  new  perspective  would 
open ;  looking  far  into  a  new  country,  broad  and 
serene,  the  cottages  of  settlers  seen  afar  for  the 
first  time,  yet  with  the  moss  of  a  century  on  their 
roofs,  and  the  third  or  fourth  generation  in  their 
shadow.  Strange  was  it  to  consider  how  the  sun 
and  the  summer,  the  buds  of  spring  and  the  seared 


TUESDAY.  233 

leaves  of  autumn,  were  related  to  these  cabins  along 
the  shore ;  how  all  the  rays  which  paint  the  land- 
scape radiate  from  them,  and  the  flight  of  the  crow 
and  the  gyrations  of  the  hawk  have  reference  to 
their  roofs.  Still  the  ever  rich  and  fertile  shores 
accompanied  us,  fringed  with  vines  and  alive  with 
small  birds  and  frisking  squirrels,  the  edge  of  some 
farmer's  field  or  widow's  wood-lot ;  or  wilder,  per- 
chance, where  the  muskrat,  the  little  medicine  of  the 
river,  drags  itself  along  stealthily  over  the  alder 
leaves  and  mussel  shells,  and  man  and  the  memory 
of  man  are  banished  far. 

At  length  the  unwearied,  never  sinking  shore,  still 
holding  on  wdthout  break,  with  its  cool  copses  and 
serene  pasture  grounds,  tempted  us  to  disembark ; 
and  we  adventurously  landed  on  this  remote  coast, 
to  survey  it,  unknown  to  any  human  inhabitant  prob- 
ably to  this  day.  But  we  still  remember  the  gnarled 
and  hospitable  oaks  which  grew  even  there  for  our 
entertainment,  and  were  no  strangers  to  us,  the  lonely 
horse  in  his  pasture,  and  the  patient  cows,  whose 
path  to  the  river,  so  judiciously  chosen  to  overcome 
the  difficulties  of  the  way,  we  followed,  and  disturbed 
their  ruminations  in  the  shade;  and,  above  all,  the 
cool  free  aspect  of  the  wild  apple  trees,  generously 
proffering  their  fruit  to  us,  though  still  green  and 
crude,  the  hard,  round,  glossy  fruit,  which,  if  not  ripe, 
still  w^as  not  poison,  but  New  English  too,  brought 
hither  its  ancestors  by  ours  once.  These  gentler 
trees  imparted  a  half-civilized  and  twilight  aspect  to 
the  otherwise  barbarian  land.  Still  further  on  wt 
scrambled  up  the  rocky  channel  of  a  brook,  which 
had  long  served  nature  for  a  sluice  there,  leaping 
like  it  from  rock  to  rock  through  tangled  woods,  at 


234    --^    WEEK   OX   THE   CONCORD   RIVER. 

the  bottom  of  a  ravine,  which  grew  darker  and  darker, 
and  more  and  more  hoarse  the  murmurs  of  the  stream, 
until  we  reached  the  ruins  of  a  mill,  where  now  the 
ivy  grew,  and  the  trout  glanced  through  the 
crumbling  flume ;  and  there  we  imagined  what  had 
been  the  dreams  and  speculations  of  some  early 
settler.  But  the  waning  day  compelled  us  to  em- 
bark once  more,  and  redeem  this  wasted  time  with 
long  and  vigorous  sweeps  over  the  rippling  stream. 

It  was  still  wild  and  solitary,  except  that  at  intervals 
of  a  mile  or  two  the  roof  of  a  cottage  might  be  seen 
over  the  bank.  This  region,  as  we  read,  was  once 
famous  for  the  manufacture  of  straw  bonnets  of  the 
Leghorn  kind,  of  which  it  claims  the  invention  in 
these  parts,  and  occasionally  some  industrious  damsel 
tripped  down  to  the  water's  edge,  as  it  appeared,  to 
put  her  straw  a-soak,  and  stood  awhile  to  watch  the 
retreating  voyageurs,  and  catch  the  fragment  of  a  boat 
song  which  we  had  made,  wafted  over  the  water. 

Thus,  perchance,  the  Indian  hunter, 

Many  a  lagging  year  agone, 
Gliding  o'er  thy  rippling  waters, 

Lowly  hummed  a  natural  song. 

Now  the  sun's  behind  the  willows, 
Now  he  gleams  along  the  waves. 

Faintly  o'er  the  wearied  billows 
Come  the  spirits  of  the  braves. 

Just  before  sundown  we  reached  some  more  falls 
in  the  town  of  Bedford,  where  some  stone-masons 
were  employed  repairing  the  locks  in  a  solitary  part 
of  the  river.  They  were  interested  in  our  adventures, 
especially  one  young  man  of  our  own  age,  who  in- 
quired at  first  if  we  were  bound  up  to  ••  "Skeag,"  and 


TUESDAY.  235 

when  he  had  heard  our  story,  and  examined  our  outfit, 
asked  us  other  questions,  but  temperately  still,  and 
always  turning  to  his  work  again,  though  as  if  it  were 
become  his  duty.  It  was  plain  that  he  would  like  to 
go  with  us,  and  as  he  looked  up  the  river,  many  a  dis- 
tant cape  and  wooded  shore  were  reflected  in  his  eye, 
as  well  as  in  his  thoughts.  When  we  were  ready  he 
left  his  work,  and  helped  us  through  the  locks  with  a 
sort  of  quiet  enthusiasm,  telling  us  we  were  at  Coos 
Falls,  and  we  could  still  distinguish  the  strokes  of  his 
chisel  for  many  sweeps  after  we  had  left  him. 

We  wished  to  camp  this  night  on  a  large  rock  in 
the  middle  of  the  stream,  just  above  these  falls,  but 
the  want  of  fuel,  and  the  difficulty  of  fixing  our  tent 
firmly,  prevented  us  ;  so  we  made  our  bed  on  the  main 
land  opposite,  on  the  west  bank,  in  the  town  of  Bed- 
ford, in  a  retired  place,  as  we  supposed,  there  being 
no  house  in  sight. 


WEDNESDAY. 

Man  is  man's  foe  and  deslinv." 


Cotton. 


Early  this  morning,  as  we  were  rolling  up  our 
buffaloes  and  loading  our  boat  amid  the  dew,  while 
our  embers  were  still  smoking,  the  masons  who  worked 
at  the  locks,  and  whom  we  had  seen  crossing  the  river 
in  their  boat  the  evening  before  while  we  were  exam- 
ining the  rock,  came  upon  us  as  they  were  going  to 
their  work,  and  we  found  that  we  had  pitched  our 
tent  directly  in  their  path  to  their  boat.  This  was 
the  only  time  that  we  were  observed  on  our  camping 
ground.  Thus,  far  from  the  beaten  highways  and  the 
dust  and  din  of  travel,  we  beheld  the  country  privately, 
yet  freely,  and  at  our  leisure.  Other  roads  do  some 
violence  to  Nature,  and  bring  the  traveller  to  stare  at 
her,  but  the  river  steals  into  the  scenery  it  traverses 
v.ithout  intrusion,  silently  creating  and  adorning  it, 
and  is  as  free  to  come  and  go  as  the  zephyr. 

As  we  shoved  away  from  this  rocky  coast,  before 
sunrise,  the  smaller  bittern,  the  genius  of  the  shore, 
was  moping  along  its  edge,  or  stood  probing  the  mud 
for  its  food,  with  ever  an  eye  on  us,  though  so  demurely 
at  work,  or  else  he  ran  along  over  the  wet  stones  like 
a  wrecker  in  his  storm  coat,  looking  out  for  wrecks  of 
snails  and  cockles.  Now  away  he  goes,  with  a  limp- 
ing flight,  uncertain  where  he  will  alight,  until  a  rod 
of  clear  sand  amid  the  alders  invites  his  feet ;  and 
now  our  steady  approach  compels  him  to  seek  a  new 
236 


WEDNESDAY.  237 

retreat.  It  is  a  bird  of  the  oldest  Thalesiaii  school, 
and  no  doubt  believes  in  the  priority  of  water  to  the 
other  elements ;  the  relic  of  a  twilight  ante-diluvian 
age  which  yet  inhabits  these  bright  American  rivers 
with  us  Yankees.  There  is  something  venerable  in 
this  melancholy  and  contemplative  race  of  birds, 
which  may  have  trodden  the  earth  while  it  was  yet 
in  a  slimy  and  imperfect  state.  Perchance  their  tracks 
too  are  still  visible  on  the  stones.  It  still  lingers  into 
our  glaring  summers,  bravely  supporting  its  fate  with- 
out sympathy  from  man,  as  if  it  looked  forward  to 
some  second  advent  of  which  he  has  no  assurance. 
One  wonders  if,  by  its  patient  study  by  rocks  and 
sandy  capes,  it  has  wrested  the  whole  of  her  secret 
from  Nature  yet.  What  a  rich  experience  it  must 
have  gained,  standing  on  one  leg  and  looking  out 
from  its  dull  eye  so  long  on  sunshine  and  rain,  moon 
and  stars!  What  could  it  tell  of  stagnant  pools  and 
reeds  and  dank  night-fogs?  It  would  be  worth  the 
while  to  look  closely  into  the  eye  which  has  been 
open  and  seeing  at  such  hours,  and  in  such  solitudes, 
its  dull,  yellowish,  greenish  eye.  Methinks  my  own 
soul  must  be  a  bright  invisible  green.  I  have  seen 
these  birds  stand  by  the  half  dozen  together  in  the 
shallower  water  along  the  shore,  with  their  bills  thrust 
into  the  mud  at  the  bottom,  probing  for  food,  the 
whole  head  being  concealed,  while  the  neck  and  body 
formed  an  arch  above  the  water. 

Cohass  Brook,  the  outlet  of  Massabesic  Pond, — 
which  last  is  five  or  six  miles  distant,  and  contains 
fifteen  hundred  acres,  being  the  largest  body  of  fresh 
water  in  Rockingham  county,  —  comes  in  near  here 
from  the  east.  Rowing  between  Manchester  and  Bed- 
ford, we  passed,  at  an  early  hour,  a  ferry  and  some 


238    A    WEEK   OX   THE    COXCORD   RIVER. 

falls,  called  Goffs  Falls,  the  Indian  Cohasset,  where 
there  is  a  small  village,  and  a  handsome  green  islet 
in  the  middle  of  the  stream.  From  Bedford  and 
Merrimac  have  been  boated  the  bricks  of  which  Lowell 
is  made.  About  twenty  years  before,  as  they  told  us, 
one  Moore,  of  Bedford,  having  clay  on  his  farm,  con- 
tracted to  furnish  eight  millions  of  bricks  to  the 
founders  of  that  city  within  two  years.  He  fulfilled 
his  contract  in  one  year,  and  since  then  bricks  have 
been  the  principal  export  from  these  towns.  The 
farmers  found  thus  a  market  for  their  wood,  and 
when  they  had  brought  a  load  to  the  kilns,  they 
could  cart  a  load  of  bricks  to  the  shore,  and  so  make 
a  profitable  day's  work  of  it.  Thus  all  parties  were 
benefited.  It  was  worth  the  while  to  see  the  place 
where  Lowell  was  *•  dug  out.*"'  So  likewise  Man- 
chester is  being  built  of  bricks  made  still  higher  up 
the  river  at  Hooksett. 

There  might  be  seen  here  on  the  bank  of  the 
Merrimack,  near  Goff 's  Falls,  in  what  is  now  the  town 
of  Bedford,  famous  '•  for  hops  and  for  its  fine  domestic 
manufactures,"  some  graves  of  the  aborigines.  The 
land  still  bears  this  scar  here,  and  time  is  slowly 
crumbling  the  bones  of  a  race.  Yet  without  fail  every 
spring  since  they  first  fished  and  hunted  here,  the 
brown  thrasher  has  heralded  the  morning  from  a  birch 
or  alder  spray,  and  the  undying  race  of  reed-birds 
still  rustles  through  the  withering  grass.  But  these 
bones  rustle  not.  These  mouldering  elements  are 
slowly  preparing  for  another  metamorphosis,  to  serve 
new  masters,  and  what  was  the  Indian's  will  ere  long 
be  the  white  man's  sinew. 

We  learned  that  Bedford  was  not  so  famous  for 
hops  as  formerly,  since  the  price  is  fluctuating,  and 


WEDNESDA  V.  239 

poles  are  now  scarce.  Yet  if  the  traveller  goes  back 
a  few  miles  from  the  river,  the  hop  kilns  wdH  still 
excite  his  curiosity. 

There  were  few  incidents  in  our  voyage  this  fore- 
noon, though  the  river  was  now  more  rocky  and  the 
falls  more  frequent  than  before.  It  was  a  pleasant 
change,  after  rowing  incessantly  for  many  hours,  to 
lock  ourselves  through  in  some  retired  place,  —  for 
commonly  there  was  no  lock-man  at  hand,  —  one 
sitting  in  the  boat,  w^hile  the  other,  sometimes  with 
no  little  labor  and  heave-yoing,  opened  and  shut  the 
gates,  waiting  patiently  to  see  the  locks  fill.  We 
did  not  once  use  the  wheels  which  we  had  provided. 
Taking  advantage  of  the  eddy,  we  were  sometimes 
floated  up  to  the  locks  almost  in  the  face  of  the  falls ; 
and,  by  the  same  cause,  any  floating  timber  was  car- 
ried round  in  a  circle  and  repeatedly  drawn  into  the 
rapids  before  it  finally  went  down  the  stream.  These 
old  gray  stiiictures,  with  their  quiet  arms  stretched 
over  the  river  in  the  sun,  appeared  like  natural  objects 
in  the  scenery,  and  the  king-fisher  and  sand-piper 
alighted  on  them  as  readily  as  on  stakes  or  rocks. 

We  rowed  leisurely  up  the  stream  for  several  hours, 
until  the  sun  had  got  high  in  the  sky,  our  thoughts 
monotonously  beating  time  to  our  oars.  For  out- 
ward variety  there  was  only  the  river  and  the  receding 
shores,  a  vista  continually  opening  behind  and  closing 
before  us,  as  we  sat  with  our  backs  up  stream,  and  for 
inward  such  thoughts  as  the  muses  grudgingly  lent 
us.  We  were  always  passing  some  low  inviting  shore 
or  some  overhanging  bank,  on  which,  however,  we 
never  landed.  — 

Such  near  aspects  had  we 
Of  our  hfe's  scenery. 


2dO    A    WEEK   OX   THE   COXCOKD  RIVER. 

It  might  be  seen  by  what  tenure  men  held  the 
earth.  The  smallest  stream  is  viediterranean  sea.  a 
smaller  ocean  creek  within  the  land,  where  men  may 
steer  by  their  farm  bounds  and  cottage  lights.  For 
my  own  part,  but  for  the  geographers,  I  should  hardly 
have  known  how  large  a  portion  of  our  globe  is  water, 
my  life  has  chiefly  passed  within  so  deep  a  cove.  Yet 
I  have  sometimes  ventured  as  far  as  to  the  mouth  of 
my  Snug  Harbor.  From  an  old  ruined  fort  on  Staten 
Island,  I  have  loved  to  watch  all  day  some  vessel 
whose  name  I  had  read  in  the  morning  through  the 
telegraph  glass,  when  she  first  came  upon  the  coast, 
and  her  hull  heaved  up  and  glistened  in  the  sun,  from 
the  moment  when  the  pilot  and  most  adventurous 
news-boats  met  her,  past  the  Hook,  and  up  the  nar- 
row channel  of  the  wide  outer  bay,  till  she  was 
boarded  by  the  health  officer,  and  took  her  station  at 
Quarantine,  or  held  on  her  unquestioned  course  to 
the  wharves  of  New  York.  It  was  interesting,  too, 
to  watch  the  less  adventurous  news-man.  who  made 
his  assault  as  the  vessel  swept  through  the  Narrows, 
defying  plague  and  quarantine  law,  and  fastening  his 
little  cock  boat  to  her  huge  side,  clambered  up  and 
disappeared  in  the  cabin.  And  then  I  could  imagine 
what  momentous  news  was  being  imparted  by  the 
captain,  which  no  American  ear  had  ever  heard,  that 
Asia,  Africa.  Europe  —  were  all  sunk :  for  which  at 
length  he  pays  the  price,  and  is  seen  descending  the 
ship's  side  with  his  bundle  of  newspapers,  but  not 
where  he  first  got  up,  for  these  arrivers  do  not  stand 
still  to  gossip,  —  and  he  hastes  away  with  steady 
sweeps  to  dispose  of  his  wares  to  the  highest  bidder, 
and  we  shall  erelong  read  something  startling,  —  "  By 
the  latest  arrival."  — •' by  the  good  ship .''  —  On 


ivb:dnesday.  241 

Sunday  I  beheld  from  some  interior  hill  the  long 
procession  of  vessels  getting  to  sea,  reaching  from 
the  city  wharves  through  the  Narrows,  and  past  the 
Hook,  quite  to  the  ocean-stream,  far  as  the  eye  could 
reach,  with  stately  march  and  silken  sails,  all  counting 
on  lucky  voyages,  but  each  time  some  of  the  number, 
no  doubt,  destined  to  go  to  Davy's  locker,  and  never 
come  on  this  coast  again.  —  And  again,  in  the  evening 
of  a  pleasant  day,  it  was  my  amusement  to  count  the 
sails  in  sight.  But  as  the  setting  sun  continually 
brought  more  and  more  to  light,  still  further  in  the 
horizon,  the  last  count  always  had  the  advantage,  till 
by  the  time  the  last  rays  streamed  over  the  sea,  I  had 
doubled  and  trebled  my  first  number ;  though  I  could 
no  longer  class  them  all  under  the  several  heads  of 
ships,  barques,  brigs,  schooners,  and  sloops,  but  most 
were  faint  generic  vessels  only.  And  then  the  tem- 
perate twilight  light,  perchance,  revealed  the  floating 
home  of  some  sailor  whose  thoughts  \vere  already 
alienated  from  this  American  coast,  and  directed  to- 
wards the  Europe  of  our  dreams.  —  I  have  stood  upon 
the  same  hill-top  when  a  thunder  shower  rolling  down 
from  the  Catskills  and  Highlands  passed  over  the 
island,  deluging  the  land,  and  when  it  had  suddenly 
left  us  in  sunshine,  have  seen  it  overtake  successively 
with  its  huge  shadow  and  dark  descending  wall  of 
rain  the  vessels  in  the  bay.  Their  bright  sails  were 
suddenly  drooping  and  dark  like  the  sides  of  barns, 
and  they  seemed  to  shrink  before  the  storm  ;  while 
still  far  beyond  them  on  the  sea,  through  this  dark 
veil,  gleamed  the  sunny  sails  of  those  vessels  which 
the  storm  had  not  yet  reached. — And  at  midnight, 
when  all  around  and  overhead  was  darkness,  I  have 
seen  a  field  of  trembling  silvery  light  far  out  on  the 


242    A    WEEK    OX    THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

sea,  the  reflection  of  the  moonlight  from  the  ocean,  as 
if  beyond  the  precincts  of  our  night,  where  the  moon 
traversed  a  cloudless  heaven,  —  and  sometimes  a 
dark  speck  in  its  midst,  where  some  fortunate  vessel 
was  pursuing  its  happy  voyage  by  night. 

But  to  us  river  sailors  the  sun  never  rose  out  of 
ocean  waves,  but  from  some  green  coppice,  and  went 
down  behind  some  dark  mountain  line.  We,  too,  were 
but  dwellers  on  the  shore,  like  the  bittern  of  the 
morning,  and  our  pursuit  the  wrecks  of  snails  and 
cockles.  Nevertheless,  we  were  contented  to  know 
the  better  one  fair  particular  shore. 

My  life  is  like  a  stroll  upon  the  beach, 

As  near  the  ocean's  edge  as  I  can  go, 
My  tardy  steps  its  waves  sometimes  o'erreach, 

Sometimes  I  stay  to  let  them  overflow. 

My  sole  employment  't  is,  and  scrupulous  care, 
To  place  my  gains  beyond  the  reach  of  tides, 

Each  smoother  pebble,  and  each  shell  more  rare. 
Which  ocean  kindly  to  my  hand  confides. 

I  have  but  few  companions  on  the  shore, 
They  scorn  the  strand  who  sail  upon  the  sea, 

Yet  oft  I  think  the  ocean  they  've  sailed  o'er 
Is  deeper  known  upon  the  strand  to  me. 

The  middle  sea  contains  no  crimson  dulse. 
Its  deeper  waves  cast  up  no  pearls  to  view, 

Along  the  shore  my  hand  is  on  its  pulse. 

And  I  converse  with  many  a  shipwrecked  crew. 

The  small  houses  which  were  scattered  along  the 
river  at  intervals  of  a  mile  or  more,  were  commonly 
out  of  sight  to  us,  but  sometimes  when  we  rowed  near 
the  shore,  we  heard  the  peevish  note  of  a  hen.  or 
some  slight  domestic  sound,   which    betrayed   them. 


WEDNESDA  V.  243 

The  lock-men's  houses  were  particularly  well  placed, 
retired,  and  high,  always  at  falls  or  rapids,  and  com- 
manding the  pleasantest  reaches  of  the  river,  — for  it 
is  generally  wider  and  more  lake-like  just  above  a  fall, 
—  and  there  they  wait  for  boats.  These  humble 
dwellings,  homely  and  sincere,  in  which  a  hearth  was 
still  the  essential  part,  were  more  pleasing  to  our  eyes 
than  palaces  or  castles  would  have  been.  In  the  noon 
of  these  days,  as  we  have  said,  we  occasionally  climbed 
the  banks  and  approached  these  houses,  to  get  a  glass 
of  water  and  make  acquaintance  with  their  inhabit- 
ants. High. in  the  leafy  bank,  surrounded  commonly 
by  a  small  patch  of  corn  and  beans,  squashes  and 
melons,  with  sometimes  a  graceful  hop-yard  on  one 
side,  and  some  running  vine  over  the  windows,  they 
appeared  like  bee-hives  set  to  gather  honey  for  a 
summer.  I  have  not  read  of  any  Arcadian  life  which 
surpasses  the  actual  luxury  and  serenity  of  these  New 
England  dwellings.  For  the  outward  gilding,  at 
least,  the  age  is  golden  enough.  As  you  approach 
the  sunny  door-way,  awakening  the  echoes  by  your 
steps,  still  no  sound  from  these  barracks  of  repose, 
and  you  fear  that  the  gentlest  knock  may  seem  rude 
to  the  oriental  dreamers.  The  door  is  opened,  per- 
chance, by  some  Yankee-Hindoo  woman,  whose 
small-voiced  but  sincere  hospitality,  out  of  the  bot- 
tomless depths  of  a  quiet  nature,  has  travelled  quite 
round  to  the  opposite  side,  and  fears  only  to  obtrude 
its  kindness.  You  step  over  the  white-scoured  floor 
to  the  bright  "  dresser,"  lightly,  as  if  afraid  to  disturb 
the  devotions  of  the  household,  —  for  oriental  dynas- 
ties appear  to  have  passed  away  since  the  dinner 
table  was  last  spread  here,  —  and  thence  to  the  fre- 
quented   curb,    where    you    see   your   long-forgotten, 


244     -^    WEEK   OX   THE  COXCORD   RIVER. 

unshaven  face  at  the  bottom,  in  juxtaposition  with 
new-made  butter  and  the  trout  in  the  well.  "  Perhaps 
you  would  like  some  molasses  and  ginger,*'  suggests 
the  faint  noon  voice.  Sometimes  there  sits  the 
brother  who  follows  the  sea.  their  representative  man  : 
who  knows  only  how  far  it  is  to  the  nearest  port,  no 
more  distances,  all  the  rest  is  sea  and  distant  capes. 
—  patting  the  dog,  or  dandling  the  kitten  in  arms 
that  were  stretched  by  the  cable  and  the  oar,  pulling 
against  Boreas  or  the  trade-winds.  He  looks  up  at 
the  stranger  half  pleased,  half  astonished,  with  a 
mariner's  eye,  as  if  he  were  a  dolphin  within  cast. 
If  men  will  believe  it,  sua  si  bona  norint,  there  are  no 
more  quiet  Tempes,  nor  more  poetic  and  Arcadian 
lives,  than  may  be  lived  in  these  New  England  dwell- 
ings. We  thought  that  the  employment  of  their 
inhabitants  by  day  would  be  to  tend  the  flowers  and 
herds,  and  at  night,  like  the  shepherds  of  old,  to  clus- 
ter and  give  names  to  the  stars  from  the  river  banks. 
We  passed  a  large  and  densely  wooded  island  this 
forenoon,  between  Short's  and  Griffith's  Falls,  the 
fairest  which  we  had  met  with,  with  a  handsome  grove 
of  elms  at  its  head.  If  it  had  been  evening  we  should 
have  been  glad  to  camp  there.  Not  long  after  one  or 
two  more  occurred.  The  boatmen  told  us  that  the 
current  had  recently  made  important  changes  here. 
An  island  always  pleases  my  imagination,  even  the 
smallest,  as  a  small  continent  and  integral  portion  of 
the  globe.  I  have  a  fancy  for  building  my  hut  on  one. 
Even  a  bare  grassy  isle  which  I  can  see  entirely  over 
at  a  glance,  has  some  undefined  and  mysterious  charm 
for  me.  It  is  commonly  the  offspring  of  the  junction 
of  two  rivers,  whose  currents  bring  down  and  deposit 
their  respective  sands  in  the  eddy  at  their  confluence. 


WEDNESDAY.  245 

as  it  were  the  womb  of  a  continent.  By  what  a  deli- 
cate and  far-fetched  contribution  every  island  is  made! 
What  an  enterprise  of  Nature  thus  to  lay  the  founda- 
tions of  and  to  build  up  the  future  continent,  of  golden 
and  silver  sands  and  the  ruins  of  forests,  with  ant-like 
industry  !  Pindar  gives  the  following  account  of  the 
origin  of  Thera,  whence,  in  after  times,  Libyan  Cyrene 
was  settled  by  Battus.  Triton,  in  the  form  of  Eu- 
rypylus,  presents  a  clod  to  Euphemus,  one  of  the 
Argonauts,  as  they  are  about  to  return  home.  — 

"He  knew  of  our  haste, 
And  immediately  seizing  a  clod 
With  his  right  hand,  strove  to  give  it 
As  a  chance  stranger's  gift. 

Nor  did  the  hero  disregard  him,  but  leaping  on  the  shore, 
Stretching  hand  to  hand, 
Received  the  mystic  clod. 
But  I  hear  it  sinking  from  the  deck. 
Go  with  the  sea  brine 

At  evening,  accompanying  the  watery  sea. 
Often  indeed  I  urged  the  careless 
Menials  to  guard  it,  but  their  minds  forgot. 
And  now  in  this  island  the  imperishable  seed  of  spacious  Libva 
Is  spilled  before  its  hour." 

It  is  a  beautiful  fable,  also  related  by  Pindar,  how 
Helius,  or  the  Sun,  looked  down  into  the  sea  one  day. 
—  when  perchance  his  rays  were  first  reflected  from 
some  increasing  glittering  sand-bar, — and  saw  the 
fair  and  fruitful  island  of  Rhodes 

"  Springing  up  from  the  bottom, 
Capable  of  feeding  many  men  and  suitable  for  flocks ;  " 

and  at  the  nod  of  Zeus, 

"  The  island  sprang  from  the  watery 

Sea  ;  and  the  Genial  Father  of  penetrating  beams, 
Ruler  of  fire-brcuthing  horses,  has  it." 


246    -/    WEEK   OX    THE   CONCORD   RIVER. 

The  shifting  islands!  who  would  not  be  willing  that 
his  house  should  be  undermined  by  such  a  foe!  The 
inhabitants  of  an  island  can  tell  what  currents  formed 
the  land  which  he  cultivates  :  and  his  earth  is  still 
being  created  or  destroyed.  There  before  his  door, 
perchance,,  still  empties  the  stream  which  brought 
down  the  material  of  his  farm  ages  before,  and  is  still 
bringing  it  down  or  washing  it  away.  —  the  graceful, 
gentle  robber! 

Not  long  after  this  we  saw  the  Piscataquoag,  or 
Sparkling  Water,  emptying  in  on  our  left,  and  heard 
the  Falls  of  Amoskeag  above.  Large  quantities  of 
lumber,  as  we  read  in  the  gazetteer,  were  still  annu- 
ally floated  down  the  Piscataquoag  to  the  Merrimack, 
and  there  are  many  fine  mill  privileges  on  it.  Just 
above  the  mouth  of  this  river  we  passed  the  artificial 
falls  where  the  canals  of  the  Manchester  Manufacturing 
Company  discharge  themselves  into  the  Merrimack. 
They  are  striking  enough  to  have  a  name,  and,  with 
the  scenery  of  a  Bashpish,  would  be  visited  from  far 
and  near.  The  water  falls  thirty  or  forty  feet  over 
seven  or  eight  steep  and  narrow  terraces  of  stone, 
probably  to  break  its  force,  and  is  converted  into 
one  mass  of  foam.  This  canal  water  did  not  seem  to 
be  the  worse  for  the  wear,  but  foamed  and  fumed  as 
purely,  and  boomed  as  savagely  and  impressively,  as 
a  mountain  torrent,  and  though  it  came  frpm  under 
a  factory,  we  saw  a  rainbow  here.  These  are  now 
the  Amoskeag  Falls,  removed  a  mile  down  stream. 
But  we  did  not  tarry  to  examine  them  minutely, 
making  haste  to  get  past  the  village  here  collected, 
and  out  of  hearing  of  the  hammer  which  was  laying 
the  foundation  of  another  Lowell  on  the  banks. 
At  the  time  of  our  voyage  Manchester  was  a  village 


WEJ)NESDA  V.  247 

of  about  two  thousand  inhabitants,  where  we  landed 
for  a  moment  to  get  some  cool  water,  and  where  an 
inhabitant  told  us  that  he  was  accustomed  to  go 
across  the  river  into  Goffstown  for  his  water.  But 
now,  after  nine  years,  as  I  have  been  told  and  in- 
deed have  witnessed,  it  contains  sixteen  thousand 
inhabitants.  From  a  hill  on  the  road  between  Goffs- 
town and  Hooksett,  four  miles  distant,  I  have  since 
seen  a  thunder  shower  pass  over,  and  the  sun  break 
out  and  shine  on  a  city  there,  where  I  had  landed  nine 
years  before  in  the  fields  to  get  a  draught  of  water ; 
and  there  was  waving  the  flag  of  its  museum,  — 
where  "the  only  perfect  skeleton  of  a  Greenland  or 
river  whale  in  the  United  States  ''  was  to  be  seen, 
and  I  also  read  in  its  directory  of  a  "  Manchester 
Athenaeum  and  Gallery  of  the  Fine  Arts."' 

According  to  the  gazetteer,  the  descent  of  Amos- 
keag  Falls,  which  are  the  most  considerable  in  the 
Merrimack,  is  fifty-four  feet  in  half  a  mile.  We 
locked  ourselves  through  here  with  much  ado,  sur- 
mounting the  successive  watery  steps  of  this  river's 
stair-case  in  the  midst  of  a  crowd  of  villagers, 
jumping  into  the  canal,  to  their  amusement,  to  save 
our  boat  from  upsetting,  and  consuming  much  river 
water  in  our  service.  Amoskeag,  or  Namaskeak,  is 
said  to  mean  "  great  fishing  place.''  It  was  here- 
abouts that  the  Sachem  Wannalancet  resided.  Tra- 
dition says  that  his  tribe,  when  at  war  with  the 
Mohawks,  concealed  their  provisions  in  the  cavities  of 
the  rocks  in  the  upper  part  of  these  falls.  The  Indians 
who  hid  their  provisions  in  these  holes,  and  affirmed 
"that  God  had  cut  them  out  for  that  purpose,'' 
understood  their  origin  and  use  better  than  the 
Royal    Society,   who    in   their    Transactions,    in    the 


248    A    WEEK   Oy   THE   COXCORD   RIVER. 

last  century;  speaking  of  these  very  holes,  declare 
that  "they  seem  plainly  to  be  artificial.''''  Similar 
'•  pot-holes "'  may  be  seen  at  the  Stone  Flume  on 
this  river,  on  the  Ottaway,  at  Bellows'"  Falls  on  the 
Connecticut,  and  in  the  limestone  rock  at  Shelburne 
Falls  on  Deerfield  river  in  Massachusetts,  and  more 
or  less  generally  about  all  falls.  Perhaps  the  most 
remarkable  curiosity  of  this  kind  in  New  England  is 
the  well  known  Basin  on  the  Pemigewasset,  one  of 
the  head-waters  of  this  river,  twenty  by  thirty  feet 
in  extent  and  proportionably  deep,  with  a  smooth 
and  rounded  brim,  and  filled  with  a  cold,  pellucid 
and  greenish  water.  At  Amoskeag  the  river  is 
divided  into  many  separate  torrents  and  trickling 
rills  by  the  rocks,  and  its  volume  is  so  much  re- 
duced by  the  drain  of  the  canals  that  it  does  not 
fill  its  bed.  There  are  many  pot-holes  here  on  a 
rocky  island  which  the  river  washes  over  in  high 
freshets.  As  at  Shelburne  Falls,  where  I  first  ob- 
served them,  they  are  from  one  foot  to  four  or  five 
in  diameter,  and  as  many  in  depth,  perfectly  round  and 
regular,  with  smooth  and  gracefully  curved  brims, 
like  goblets.  Their  origin  is  apparent  to  the  most 
careless  observer.  A  stone  which  the  current  has 
washed  down,  meeting  with  obstacles,  revolves  as 
on  a  pivot  where  it  lies,  gradually  sinking  in  the 
course  of  centuries  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  rock, 
and  in  new  freshets  receiving  the  aid  of  fresh  stones 
which  are  drawn  into  this  trap  and  doomed  to  re- 
volve there  for  an  indefinite  period,  doing  Sisyphus- 
like penance  for  stony  sins,  until  they  either  wear 
out,  or  wear  through  the  bottom  of  their  prison,  or 
else  are  released  by  some  revolution  of  nature. 
There  lie  the  stones  of  various  sizes,  from  a  pebble 


WEDNESDA  Y.  249 

to  a  foot  or  two  in  diameter,  some  of  which  have 
rested  from  their  labor  only  since  the  spring,  and 
some  higher  up  which  have  lain  still  and  dry  for 
ages,  —  we  notice  some  here  at  least  sixteen  feet 
above  the  present  level  of  the  water,  —  while  others 
are  still  revolving,  and  enjoy  no  respite  at  any  sea- 
son. In  one  instance,  at  Shelburne  Falls,  they  have 
worn  quite  through  the  rock,  so  that  a  portion  of 
the  river  leaks  through  in  anticipation  of  the  fall. 
Some  of  these  pot-holes  at  Amoskeag,  in  a  very 
hard  brown  stone,  had  an  oblong  cylindrical  stone 
of  the  same  material  loosely  fitting  them.  One,  as 
much  as  fifteen  feet  deep  and  seven  or  eight  in  diam- 
eter, which  was  worn  quite  through  to  the  water, 
had  a  huge  rock  of  the  same  material,  smooth  but 
of  irregular  form,  lodged  in  it.  Everywhere  there 
were  the  rudiments  or  the  wrecks  of  a  dimple  in 
the  rock ;  the  rocky  shells  of  whirlpools.  -  As  if,  by 
force  of  example  and  sympathy  after  so  many  lessons, 
the  rocks,  the  hardest  material,  had  been  endeavor- 
ing to  whirl  or  flow  into  the  forms  of  the  most  fluid. 
The  finest  workers  in  stone  are  not  copper  or  steel 
tools,  but  the  gentle  touches  of  air  and  water  work- 
ing at  their  leisure  with  a  liberal  allowance  of  time. 

Not  only  have  some  of  these  basins  been  forming 
for  countless  ages,  but  others  exist  which  must  have 
been  completed  in  a  former  geological  period.  There 
are  some,  we  are  told,  in  the  town  of  Canaan  in  this 
State,  with  the  stones  still  in  them,  on  the  height  of 
land  between  the  Merrimack  and  Connecticut,  and 
nearly  a  thousand  feet  above  these  rivers,  proving 
that  the  mountains  and  the  rivers  have  changed  places.^ 
There  lie  the  stones  which  completed  their  revolutions 
perhaps  before  thoughts  began  to  revolve  in  the  brain 


250    A    WEEK   OX   THE    CONCORD  RIVER. 

of  man.  The  periods  of  Hindoo  and  Cliinese  history, 
though  they  reach  back  to  the  time  when  the  race  of 
mortals  is  confounded  with  the  race  of  gods,  are  as 
nothing  compared  with  the  periods  which  these  stones 
have  inscribed.  That  which  commenced  a  rock  when 
time  was  young,  shall  conclude  a  pebble  in  the  une- 
qual contest.  With  such  expense  of  time  and  natural 
forces  are  our  very  paving  stones  produced.  They 
teach  us  lessons,  these  dumb  workers  ;  verily  there  are 
'•  sermons  in  stones  and  books  in  the  running  streams."' 
In  these  very  holes  the  Indians  hid  their  provisions ; 
but  now  there  is  no  bread,  but  only  its  eld  neighbor 
stones  at  the  bottom.  Who  knows  how  many  races 
they  have  served  thus?  By  as  simple  a  law.  some 
accidental  by-law,  perchance,  our  system  itself  was 
made  ready  for  its  inhabitants. 

These,  and  such  as  these,  must  be  our  antiquities, 
for  lack  of  human  vestiges.  The  monuments  of 
heroes  and  the  temples  of  the  gods  which  may  once 
have  stood  on  the  banks  of  this  river,  are  now,  at  any 
rate,  returned  to  dust  and  primitive  soil.  The  mur- 
mur of  unchronicled  nations  has  died  away  along 
these  shores,  and  once  more  Lowell  and  Manchester 
are  on  the  trail  of  the  Indian, 

The  fact  that  Romans  once  inhabited  her  reflects 
no  little  dignity  on  Nature  herself;  that  from  some 
particular  hill  the  Roman  once  looked  out  on  the  sea. 
She  need  not  be  ashamed  of  the  vestiges  of  her 
children.  How  gladly  the  antiquary  informs  us  that 
their  vessels  penetrated  into  this  frith,  or  up  that  river 
of  some  remote  isle  !  Their  military  monuments  still 
remain  on  the  hills  and  under  the  sod  of  the  valleys. 
The  oft-repeated  Roman  story  is  written  in  still  legi- 
ble characters  in  every  quarter  of  the  old  world,  and 


WEDNESDAY.  25 1 

but  to-day,  perchance,  a  new  coin  is  dug  up  whose  in- 
scription repeats  and  confirms  their  fame.  Some 
-'JiidcEa  Capta,''"'  with  a  woman  mourning  under  a 
palm  tree,  with  silent  argument  and  demonstration 
confirms  the  pages  of  history. 

"  Rome  living  was  the  world's  sole  ornament ; 
And  dead  is  now  the  world's  sole  monument." 

"  With  her  own  weight  down  pressed  now  she  lies, 
And  by  her  heaps  her  hugeness  testifies." 

If  one  doubts  whether  Grecian  valor  and  patriotism 
are  not  a  fiction  of  the  poets,  he  may  go  to  Athens  and 
see  still  upon  the  walls  of  the  temple  of  Minerva  the 
circular  marks  made  by  the  shields  taken  from  the 
enemy  in  the  Persian  war,  which  were  suspended 
there.  We  have  hot  far  to  seek  for  living  and  un- 
questionable evidence.  The  very  dust  takes  shape 
and  confirms  some  story  which  we  had  read.  As 
Fuller  said,  commenting  on  the  zeal  of  Camden,  "  A 
broken  urn  is  a  whole  evidence ;  or  an  old  gate  still 
surviving  out  of  which  the  city  is  run  out."  When 
Solon  endeavored  to  prove  that  Salamis  had  formerly 
belonged  to  the  Athenians,  and  not  to  the  Mega- 
reans,  he  caused  the  tombs  to  be  opened,  and  showed 
that  the  inhabitants  of  Salamis  turned  the  faces  of 
their  dead  to  the  same  side  with  the  Athenians,  but 
the  Megareans  to  the  opposite  side.  There  they 
were  to  be  interrogated. 

Some  minds  are  as  little  logical  or  argumentative 
as  nature ;  they  can  offer  no  reason  or  ''  guess,"  but 
they  exhibit  the  solemn  and  incontrovertible  fact.  If 
a  historical  question  arises,  they  cause  the  tombs  to 
be  opened.    Their  silent  and  practical  logic  convinces 


252    J    WEEK   OX   THE   CONCORD   RIVER. 

the  reason  and  the  understanding  at  the  same  time. 
Of  such  sort  is  always  the  only  pertinent  question  and 
the  only  unanswerable  reply. 

Our  own  country  furnishes  antiquities  as  ancient 
and  durable,  and  as  useful,  as  any :  rocks  at  least  as 
well  covered  with  moss,  and  a  soil  which,  if  it  is  virgin, 
is  but  virgin  mould,  the  very  dust  of  nature.  What 
if  we  cannot  read  Rome,  or  Greece,  Etruria,  or 
Carthage,  or  Egypt,  or  Babylon,  on  these ;  are  our 
cliffs  bare?  The  lichen  on  the  rocks  is  a  rude  and 
simple  shield  which  beginning  and  imperfect  Nature 
suspended  there.  Still  hangs  her  wrinkled  trophy. 
And  here  too  the  poet's  eye  may  still  detect  the  brazen 
nails  which  fastened  Time's  inscriptions,  and  if  he  has 
the  gift,  decipher  them  by  this  clue.  The  walls  that 
fence  our  fields,  as  well  as  modern  Rome,  and  not  less 
the  Parthenon  itself,  are  all  built  of  ruins.  Here 
may  be  heard  the  din  of  rivers,  and  ancient  winds 
which  have  long  since  lost  their  names  sough  through 
our  woods;  —  the  first  faint  sounds  of  spring,  older 
than  the  summer  of  Athenian  glory,  the  titmouse  lisp- 
ing in  the  wood,  the  jay's  scream  and  blue-bird's 
warble,  and  the  hum  of 

"  bees  that  fly 
About  the  laughing  blossoms  of  sallowy." 

Here  is  the  gray  dawn  for  antiquity,  and  our  to-mor- 
row's future  should  be  at  least  paulo-post  to  theirs 
which  we  have  put  behind  us.  There  are  the  red- 
maple  and  birchen  leaves,  old  runes  which  are  not  yet 
deciphered ;  catkins,  pine-cones,  vines,  oak-leaves, 
and  acorns ;  the  very  things  themselves,  and  not 
their  forms  in  stone,  —  so  much  the  more  ancient  and 
venerable.     And  even  to  the  current  summer  there  has 


WEDNESDAY.  253 

come  down  tradition  of  a  hoary-headed  master  of  all 
art,  who  once  filled  every  field  and  grove  with  statues 
and  god-like  architecture,  of  every  design  which 
Greece  has  lately  copied ;  whose  ruins  are  now  min- 
gled with  the  dust,  and  not  one  block  remains  upon 
another.  The  century  sun  and  unwearied  rain  have 
wasted  them,  till  not  one  fragment  from  that  quarry 
now  exists ;  and  poets  perchance  will  feign  that  gods 
sent  down  the  material  from  heaven. 

What  though  the  traveller  tell  us  of  the  ruins  of 
Egypt,  are  we  so  sick  or  idle,  that  we  must  sacrifice 
our  America  and  to-day  to  some  man's  ill-remembered 
and  indolent  story  ?  Carnac  and  Luxor  are  but  names, 
or  if  their  skeletons  remain,  still  more  desert  sand, 
and  at  length  a  wave  of  the  Mediterranean  sea,  are 
needed  to  wash  away  the  filth  that  attaches  to  their 
grandeur.  Carnac  !  Carnac  !  here  is  Carnac  for  me. 
I  behold  the  columns  of  a  larger  and  purer  temple. 

This  is  my  Carnac,  whose  unmeasured  dome 
Shelters  the  measuring  art  and  measurer's  home. 
Behold  these  flowers,  let  us  be  up  with  time, 
Not  dreaming  of  three  thousand  years  ago, 
Erect  ourselves  and  let  those  columns  lie, 
Not  stoop  to  raise  a  foil  against  the  sky. 
Where  is  the  spirit  of  that  time  but  in 
This  present  day,  perchance  this  present  line  ? 
Three  thousand  years  ago  are  not  agone. 
They  are  still  lingering  in  this  summer  morn, 
And  Memnon's  Mother  sprightly  greets  us  now. 
Wearing  her  youthful  radiance  on  her  brow. 
If  Carnac's  columns  still  stand  on  the  plain. 
To  enjoy  our  opportunities  they  remain. 

In  these  parts  dwelt  the  famous  Sachem  Passacona- 
way,  who  was  seen  by  Gookin  ''  at  Pawtucket,  when 


254    --^    WEEK   ON   THE   CONCORD   RIVER. 

he  was  about  one  hundred  and  twenty  years  old."  He 
was  reputed  a  wise  man  and  a  powwow,  and  restrained 
his  people  from  going  to  war  with  the  English.  They 
believed  '•  that  he  could  make  water  burn,  rocks  move, 
and  trees  dance,  and  metamorphose  himself  into  a 
flaming  man ;  that  in  winter  he  could  raise  a  green 
leaf  out  of  the  ashes  of  a  dry  one,  and  produce  a  living 
snake  from  the  skin  of  a  dead  one."'  In  1660,  accord- 
ing to  Gookin,  at  a  great  feast  and  dance,  he  made 
his  farewell  speech  to  his  people,  in  which  he  said, 
that  as  he  was  not  likely  to  see  them  met  together 
again,  he  would  leave  them  this  word  of  advice,  to 
take  heed  how  they  quarrelled  with  their  English 
neighbors,  for  though  they  might  do  them  much  mis- 
chief at  first,  it  would  prove  the  means  of  their  own 
destruction.  He  himself,  he  said,  had  been  as  much 
an  enemy  to  the  English  at  their  first  coming  as  any, 
and  had  used  all  his  arts  to  destroy  them,  or  at  least  to 
prevent  their  settlement,  but  could  by  no  means  effect 
it.  Gookin  thought  that  he  "possibly  might  have 
such  a  kind  of  spirit  upon  him  as  was  upon  Balaam, 
who  in  xxiii.  Numbers,  23,  said  '  Surely  there  is  no 
enchantment  against  Jacob,  neither  is  there  any  divi- 
nation against  Israel."'"'  His  son  Wannalancet  care- 
fully followed  his  advice,  and  when  Philip's  War 
broke  out,  he  withdrew  his  followers  to  Penacook, 
now  Concord  in  New  Hampshire,  from  the  scene  of 
the  war.  On  his  return  afterwards  he  visited  the 
minister  of  Chelmsford,  and,  as  is  stated  in  the  his- 
tory of  that  town,  '•  wished  to  know  whether  Chelms- 
ford had  suffered  much  during  the  war;  and  being 
informed  that  it  had  not,  and  that  God  should  be 
thanked  for  it,  Wannalancet  replied,  'Me  next.'" 
Manchester  was  the  residence  of  John  Stark,  a  hero 


WEDNESDAY.  255 

of  two  wars,  and  survivor  of  a  third,  and  at  his  death 
the  last  but  one  of  the  American  generals  of  the 
Revolution.  He  was  born  in  the  adjoining  town  of 
Londonderry,  then  Nutfield,  in  1728.  As  early  as 
1752,  he  was  taken  prisoner  by  the  Indians  while 
hunting  in  the  wilderness  near  Baker's  river;  he 
performed  notable  service  as  a  captain  of  rangers  in 
the  French  war ;  commanded  a  regiment  of  the  New 
Hampshire  militia  at  the  battle  of  Bunker  Hill;  and 
fought  and  won  the  battle  of  Bennington  in  1777. 
He  was  past  service  in  the  last  war,  and  died  here  in 
1822,  at  the  age  of  94.  His  monument  stands  upon 
the  second  bank  of  the  river,  about  a  mile  and  a  half 
above  the  falls,  and  commands  a  prospect  several 
miles  up  and  down  the  Merrimack.  It  suggested 
how  much  more  impressive  in  the  landscape  is  the 
tomb  of  a  hero  than  the  dwellings  of  the  inglorious 
living.  Who  is  most  dead,  —  a  hero  by  whose  mon- 
ument you  stand,  or  his  descendants  of  whom  you 
have  never  heard? 

The  graves  of  Passaconaway  and  Wannalancet  are 
marked  by  no  monument  on  the  bank  of  their  native 
river. 

Every  town  which  \\t  passed,  if  we  may  believe  the 
gazetteer,  had  been  the  residence  of  some  great  man. 
But  though  we  knocked  at  many  doors,  and  even 
made  particular  inquiries,  we  could  not  find  that  there 
were  any  now  living.  Under  the  head  of  Litchfield 
we  read,  — 

"The  Hon.  Wyseman  Clagett  closed  his  life  in  this 
town."  According  to  another,  "  He  was  a  classi- 
cal scholar,  a  good  lawyer,  a  wit,  and  a  poet."  We 
saw  his  old  gray  house  just  below  Great  Nesenkeag 


256    A    IVEEK   OjV   the    CONCORD  RIVER. 

Brook.  —  Under  the  head  of  Merrimac,  —  "Hon.  Mat- 
thew Thornton,  one  of  the  signers  of  the  Declaration 
of  American  Independence,  resided  many  years  in 
this  town."'  His  house  too  we  feaw  from  the  river.  — 
••  Dr.  Jonathan  Gove,  a  man  distinguished  for  his 
urbanity,  his  talents  and  professional  skill,  resided 
in  this  town  [Goffstown.]  He  was  one  of  the  old- 
est practitioners  of  medicine  in  the  county.  He  was 
many  years  an  active  member  of  the  legislature."'  — 
'•  Hon.  Robert  Means,  who  died  Jan.  24.  1823,  at 
the  age  of  80,  was  for  a  long  period  a  resident  in 
Amherst.  He  was  a  native  of  Ireland.  In  1764  he 
came  to  this  countr\',  where  by  his  industrv'  and  ap- 
plication to  business,  he  acquired  a  large  property,  and 
great  respect.*'  —  '-William  Stinson,  [one  of  the  first 
settlers  of  Dunbarton.]  born  in  Ireland,  came  to  Lon- 
donderry with  his  father.  He  was  much  respected 
and  was  a  useful  man.  James  Rogers  was  from  Ire- 
land, and  father  to  Major  Robert  Rogers.  He  was 
shot  in  the  woods,  being  mistaken  for  a  bear."  — 
'•Rev.  Matthew  Clark,  second  minister  of  London- 
derry, was  a  native  of  Ireland,  who  had  in  early  life 
been  an  officer  in  the  army,  and  distinguished  himself 
in  the  defence  of  the  city  of  Londonderry,  when  be- 
sieged by  the  army  of  King  James  II.,  A.D.  168S-9. 
He  afterwards  relinquished  a  military  life  for  the 
clerical  profession.  He  possessed  a  strong  mind, 
marked  by  a  considerable  degree  of  eccentricity.  He 
died  Jan.  25,  1735,  and  was  borne  to  the  grave,  at  his 
particular  request,  by  his  former  companions  in  arms, 
of  whom  there  were  a  considerable  number  among 
the  early  settlers  of  this  town ;  several  of  whom  had 
been  made  free  from  taxes  throughout  the  British 
dominions  by  King  William,  for  their  bravery  in  that 


WEDNESDAY.  257 

memorable  siege/'  —  Col.  George  Reid  and  Capt. 
David  M'Clary,  also  citizens  of  Londonderry',  were 
"  distinguished  and  brave  '^  officers.  —  '*  Major  Andrew 
M''Clary,  a  native  of  this  town  [Epsom],  fell  at  the 
battle  of  Breed's  Hill."'  —  Many  of  these  heroes,  like 
the  illustrious  Roman,  were  plowing  when  the  news 
of  the  massacre  at  Lexington  arrived,  and  straight- 
way left  their  plows  in  the  furrow,  and  repaired  to  the 
scene  of  action.  Some  miles  from  where  we  now 
were,  there  once  stood  a  guide-board  which  said,  "  3 
miles  to  Squire  MacGaw's."'  — 

But  generally  speaking,  the  land  is  now,  at  any  rate, 
very  barren  of  men,  and  we  doubt  if  there  are  as 
many  hundreds  as  we  read  of.  It  may  be  that  we 
stood  too  near. 

Uncannunuc  Mountain  in  Gofifstown  was  visible 
from  Amoskeag,  five  or  six  miles  westward.  Its  name 
is  said  to  mean  "The  Two  Breasts,"  there  being 
two  eminences  some  distance  apart.  The  highest, 
which  is  about  fourteen  hundred  feet  above  the  sea, 
probably  affords  a  more  extensive  view  of  the  Merri- 
mack valley  and  the  adjacent  country  than  any  other 
hill,  though  it  is  somewhat  obstructed  by  woods. 
Only  a  few  short  reaches  of  the  river  are  visible,  but 
you  can  trace  its  course  far  down  stream  by  the  sandy 
tracts  on  its  banks. 

A  little  south  of  Uncannunuc,  about  sixty  years 
ago,  as  the  story  goes,  an  old  woman  who  went  out 
to  gather  pennyroyal,  tript  her  foot  in  the  bail  of  a 
small  brass  kettle  in  the  dead  grass  and  bushes. 
Some  say  that  flints  and  charcoal  and  some  traces  of 
a  camp  were  also  found.  This  kettle,  holding  about 
four  quarts,  is  still  preserved  and  used  to  dye  thread 


258    A    WEEK   OX   THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

in.  It  is  supposed  to  have  belonged  to  some  old 
French  or  Indian  hunter,  who  was  killed  in  one  of 
his  hunting  or  scouting  excursions,  and  so  never  re- 
turned to  look  after  his  kettle. 

But  we  were  most  interested  to  hear  of  the  penny- 
royal, it  is  so  soothing  to  be  reminded  that  wild 
nature  produces  anything  ready  for  the  use  of  man. 
Men  know  that  something  is  good.  One  says  that  it 
is  yellow-dock,  another  that  it  is  bitter-sweet,  another 
that  it  is  slippery-elm  bark,  burdock,  catnip,  calamint, 
elicampane,  thoroughwort,  or  pennyroyal.  A  man 
may  esteem  himself  happy  when  that  which  is  his  food 
is  also  his  medicine.  There  is  no  kind  of  herb  that 
grows,  but  somebody  or  other  says  t^at  it  is  good. 
I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it.  I  reminds  me  of  the  first 
chapter  of  Genesis.  But  how  should  they  know  that 
it  is  good  ?  That  is  the  mystery  to  me.  I  am  always 
agreeably  disappointed ;  it  is  incredible  that  they 
should  have  found  it  out.  Since  all  things  are  good, 
men  fail  at  last  to  distinguish  which  is  the  bane,  and 
which  the  antidote.  There  are  sure  to  be  two  pre- 
scriptions diametrically  opposite.  Stuff  a  cold  and 
starve  a  cold  are  but  two  ways.  They  are  the  two 
practices  both  always  in  full  blast.  Yet  you  must 
take  advice  of  the  one  school  as  if  there  was  no  other. 
In  respect  to  religion  and  the  healing  art,  all  nations 
are  still  in  a  state  of  barbarism.  In  the  most  civil- 
ized countries  the  priest  is  still  but  a  Powwow,  and 
the  physician  a  Great  Medicine.  Consider  the  def- 
erence which  is  everywhere  paid  to  a  doctor's  opinion. 
Nothing  more  strikingly  betrays  the  credulity  of  man- 
kind than  medicine.  Quackery  is  a  thing  universal, 
and  universally  successful.  In  this  case  it  becomes 
literally  true  that  no  imposition  is  too  great  for  the 


WEDNESDAY.  259 

credulity  of  men.  Priests  and  physicians  should  never 
look  one  another  in  the  face.  They  have  no  common 
ground,  nor  is  their  any  to  mediate  between  them. 
When  the  one  comes,  the  other  goes.  They  could 
not  come  together  without  laughter,  or  a  significant 
silence,  for  the  one's  profession  is  a  satire  on  the 
other's,  and  cither's  success  would  be  the  others 
failure.  It  is  wonderful  that  the  physician  should 
ever  die,  and  that  the  priest  should  ever  live.  Why 
is  it  that  the  priest  is  never  called  to  consult  with  the 
physician?  It  is  because  men  believe  practically  that 
matter  is  independent  of  spirit.  But  what  is  quack- 
ery ?  It  is  commonly  an  attempt  to  cure  the  diseases 
of  a  man  by  addressing  his  body  alone.  There  is 
need  of  a  physician  who  shall  minister  to  both  soul 
and  body  at  once,  that  is,  to  man.  Now  he  falls 
between  two  stools. 

After  passing  through  the  locks,  we  had  poled  our- 
selves through  the  canal  here,  about  half  a  mile  in 
length,  to  the  boatable  part  of  the  river.  Above 
Amoskeag  the  river  spreads  out  into  a  lake  reach- 
ing a  mile  or  two  without  a  bend.  There  were  many 
canal  boats  here  bound  up  to  Hooksett,  about  eight 
miles,  and  as  they  were  going  up  empty  with  a  fair 
wind,  one  boatman  offered  to  take  us  in  tow  if  we 
would  wait.  But  when  we  came  alongside,  we  found 
that  they  meant  to  take  us  on  board,  since  other- 
wise we  should  clog  their  motions  too  much  ;  but 
as  our  boat  was  too  heavy  to  be  lifted  aboard,  we 
pursued  our  way  up  the  stream,  as  before,  while  the 
boatmen  were  at  their  dinner,  and  came  to  anchor 
at  length  under  some  alders  on  the  opposite  shore, 
where  we  could  take  our  lunch.  Though  far  on  one 
side,  every  sound  was  wafted  ove*-  to   us    from    tlie 


26o    J    WEEK   ON   THE    CONCORD  RIVER. 

opposite  bankj  and  from  the  harbor  of  the  canal,  and 
\ve  could  see  everything  that  passed.  By  and  by 
came  several  canal  boats,  at  intervals  of  a  quarter 
of  a  mile,  standing  up  to  Hooksett  with  a  light  breeze, 
and  one  by  one  disappeared  round  a  point  above. 
With  their  broad  sails  set,  they  moved  slowly  up  the 
stream  in  the  sluggish  and  fitful  breeze,  like  one- 
winged  antediluvian  birds,  and  as  if  impelled  by  some 
mysterious  counter  current.  It  was  a  grand  motion, 
so  slow  and  stately,  this  "  standing  out,''  as  the 
phrase  is,  expressing  the  gradual  and  steady  progress 
of  a  vessel,  as  if  it  were  by  mere  rectitude  and  dis- 
position, without  shutifling.  Their  sails,  which  stood 
so  still,  were  like  chips  cast  into  the  current  of  the  air 
to  show  which  way  it  set.  At  length  the  boat  which 
we  had  spoken  came  along,  keeping  the  middle  of 
the  stream,  and  when  within  speaking  distance  the 
steersman  called  out  ironically  to  say,  that  if  we 
would  come  alongside  now  he  would  take  us  in  tow ; 
but  not  heeding  his  taunt,  we  still  loitered  in  the 
shade  till  we  had  finished  our  lunch,  and  when  the 
last  boat  had  disappeared  round  the  point  with  flap- 
ping sail,  for  the  breeze  had  now  sunk  to  a  zephyr, 
with  our  own  sails  set,  and  plying  our  oars,  we  shot 
rapidly  up  the  stream  in  pursuit,  and  as  we  glided 
close  alongside,  while  they  were  vainly  invoking 
yColus  to  their  aid,  we  returned  their  compliment 
by  proposing,  if  they  would  throw  us  a  rope,  to  "  take 
them  in  tow,"*  to  which  these  Merrimack  sailors  had 
no  suitable  answer  ready.  Thus  we  gradually  over- 
took each  boat  in  succession  until  we  had  the  river 
to  ourselves  again. 

Our  course  this  afternoon  was  between  Manchester 
and  GofFstown. 


WEDNESDAY.  26 1 

While  we  float  here,  far  from  that  tributary  stream 
on  whose  banks  our  friends  and  kindred  dwell,  our 
thoughts,  like  the  stars,  come  out  of  their  horizon 
still ;  for  there  circulates  a  finer  blood  than  Lavoisier 
has  discovered  the  laws  of,  —  the  blood,  not  of  kindred 
merely,  but  of  kindness,  whose  pulse  still  beats  at  any 
distance  and  forever.  After  years  of  vain  familiarity, 
some  distant  gesture  or  unconscious  behavior,  which 
we  remember,  speaks  to  us  with  more  emphasis  than 
the  wisest  or  kindest  words.  We  are  sometimes  made 
aware  of  a  kindness  long  passed,  and  realize  that  there 
have  been  times  when  our  friends"'  thoughts  of  us  were 
of  so  pure  and  lofty  a  character  that  they  passed  over 
us  like  the  winds  of  heaven  unnoticed ;  when  they 
treated  us  not  as  what  we  were,  but  as  what  we  aspired 
to  be.  There  has  just  reached  us,  it  may  be,  the 
nobleness  of  some  such  silent  behavior,  not  to  be  for- 
gotten, not  to  be  remembered,  and  we  shudder  to 
think  how  it  fell  on  us  cold,  though  in  some  tme  but 
tardy  hour  we  endeavor  to  wipe  off  these  scores. 

In  my  experience,  persons,  when  they  are  made  the 
subject  of  conversation,  though  with  a  friend,  are 
commonly  the  most  prosaic  and  trivial  of  facts.  The 
universe  seems  bankrupt  as  soon  as  we  begin  to  dis- 
cuss the  character  of  individuals.  Our  discourse  all 
nms  to  slander,  and  our  limits  grow  narrower  as  we 
advance.  How  is  it  that  we  are  impelled  to  treat  our 
old  friends  so  ill  when  we  obtain  new  ones?  The 
housekeeper  says,  I  never  had  any  new  crockery  in 
my  life  but  I  began  to  break  the  old.  I  say,  let  us 
speak  of  mushrooms  and  forest  trees  rather.  Yet  we 
can  sometimes  afford  to  remember  them  in  private.  — 

Lately,  alas,  I  knew  a  gentle  boy, 
Whose  features  all  were  cast  in  Virtues'  mould. 


262    A    WEEK   ON   THE   CONCORD  RIVER. 

As  one  she  had  designed  for  Beauty's  toy, 

But  after  manned  him  for  her  own  stronghold. 

On  every  side  he  open  was  as  day, 

That  you  might  see  no  lack  of  strength  within, 

For  walls  and  ports  do  only  serve  alway 
For  a  pretence  to  feebleness  and  sin. 

Say  not  that  Caesar  was  victorious. 

With  toil  and  strife  who  stormed  the  House  of  Fame, 
In  other  sense  this  youth  was  glorious, 

Himself  a  kingdom  wheresoe'er  he  came. 

No  strength  went  out  to  get  him  victory, 
When  all  was  income  of  its  own  accord ; 

For  where  he  went  none  other  was  to  see. 
But  all  were  parcel  of  their  noble  lord. 

He  forayed  like  the  subtil  haze  of  summer. 
That  stilly  shows  fresh  landscapes  to  our  eyes, 

And  revolutions  works  without  a  murmur, 
Or  rustling  of  a  leaf  beneath  the  skies. 

So  was  I  taken  unawares  by  this, 

I  quite  forgot  my  homage  to  confess; 
Yet  now  am  forced  to  know,  though  hard  it  is, 

I  might  have  loved  him  had  I  loved  him  less. 

E^ch  moment  as  we  nearer  drew  to  each, 
A  stern  respect  withheld  us  further  yet, 

So  that  we  seemed  beyond  each  other's  reach. 
And  less  acquainted  than  when  first  we  met. 

We  two  were  one  while  we  did  sympathize. 
So  could  we  not  the  simplest  bargain  drive ; 

And  what  avails  it  now  that  we  are  wise. 
If  absence  doth  this  doubleness  contrive? 

Eternity  may  not  the  chance  repeat, 
But  I  must  tread  my  single  way  alone, 

In  sad  remembrance  that  we  once  did  meet, 
And  know  that  bliss  irrevocably  gone. 


WEDNESDA  Y.  263 

The  spheres  henceforth  my  elegy  shall  sing, 

For  elegy  has  other  subject  none ; 
Each  strain  of  music  in  my  ears  shall  ring 

Knell  of  departure  from  that  other  one. 

Make  haste  and  celebrate  my  tragedy ; 

With  fitting  strain  resound  ye  woods  and  fields ; 
Sorrow  is  dearer  in  such  case  to  me 

Than  all  the  joys  other  occasion  yields. 


Is  't  then  too  late  the  damage  to  repair? 

Distance,  forsooth,  from  my  weak  grasp  hath  reft 
The  empty  husk,  and  clutched  the  useless  tare, 

But  in  my  hands  the  wheat  and  kernel  left. 

If  I  but  love  that  virtue  which  he  is, 
Though  it  be  scented  in  the  morning  air, 

Still  shall  we  be  truest  acquaintances, 

Nor  mortals  know  a  sympathy  more  rare. 

Friendship  is  evanescent  in  every  man^s  experience, 
and  remembered  like  heat  lightning  in  past  summers. 
Fair  and  flitting  like  a  summer  cloud  ;  —  there  is  always 
some  vapor  in  the  air,  no  matter  how  long  the  drought ; 
there  are  even  April  showers.  Surely  from  time  to 
time,  for  its  vestiges  never  depart,  it  floats  through 
our  atmosphere.  It  takes  place,  like  vegetation  in 
so  many  materials,  because  there  is  such  a  law,  but 
always  without  permanent  form,  tliough  ancient  and 
familiar  as  the  sun  and  moon,  and  as  sure  to  come 
again.  The  heart  is  forever  inexperienced.  They 
silently  gather  as  by  magic,  these  never  failing,  never 
quite  deceiving  visions,  like  the  bright  and  fleecy 
clouds  in  the  calmest  and  clearest  days.  The  Friend 
is  some  fair  floating  isle  of  palms  eluding  the  mariner 
in  Pacific  seas.  Many  are  the  dangers  to  be  encoun- 
tered, equinoctial  gales  and  coral  reefs,  ere  he  may 


264    -^    WEEK    OX   THE    CONCORD  RIVER. 

sail  before  the  constant  trades.  But  who  would  not 
sail  through  mutiny  and  storm  even  over  Atlantic 
waves,  to  reach  the  fabulous  retreating  shores  of  some 
continent  man?  The  imagination  still  clings  to  the 
faintest  tradition  of 

THE  ATLAXTIDES. 

The  smothered  streams  of  love,  which  flow 

More  bright  than  Phlegethon,  more  low, 

Island  us  ever,  Hke  the  sea, 

In  an  Atlantic  mystery. 

Our  fabled  shores  none  ever  reach, 

No  mariner  has  found  our  beach, 

Only  our  mirage  now  is  seen. 

And  neighboring  waves  with  floating  green, 

Yet  still  the  oldest  charts  contain 

Some  dotted  outline  of  our  main; 

In  ancient  times  midsummer  days 

Unto  the  western  islands'  gaze, 

To  Teneriffe  and  the  Azores, 

Have  shown  our  faint  and  cloud-hke  shores. 

But  sink  not  yet,  ye  desolate  isles. 
Anon  your  coast  with  commerce  smiles. 
And  richer  freights  ye  '11  furnish  far 
Than  Africa  or  Malabar. 
Be  fair,  be  fertile  evermore, 
Ye  rumored  but  untrodden  shore. 
Princes  and  monarchs  will  contend 
Who  first  unto  your  land  shall  send. 
And  pawn  the  jewels  of  the  crown 
To  call  your  distant  soil  their  own. 

Columbus  has  sailed  westward  of  these  isles  by  the 
mariner's  compass,  but  neither  he  nor  his  successors 
have  found  them.  We  are  no  nearer  than  Plato  was. 
The  earnest  seeker  and  hopeful  discoverer  of  this 
New  World  always  haunts  the  outskirts  of  his  time, 


WEDNESDA  V.  265 

and  walks  through  the  densest  crowd  uninterrupted, 
and  as  it  were  in  a  straight  line.  — 

Sea  and  land  are  but  his  neighbors, 

And  companions  in  his  labors, 

Who  on  the  ocean's  verge  and  firm  land's  end 

Doth  long  and  truly  seek  his  Friend. 

Many  men  dwell  far  inland, 

But  he  alone  sits  on  the  strand. 

Whether  he  ponders  men  or  books, 

Always  still  he  seaward  looks, 

Marine  news  he  ever  reads, 

And  the  slightest  glances  heeds. 

Feels  the  sea  breeze  on  his  cheek 

At  each  word  the  landsmen  speak, 

In  every  companion's  eye 

A  sailing  vessel  doth  descry; 

In  the  ocean's  sullen  roar 

From  some  distant  port  he  hears. 

Of  wrecks  upon  a  distant  shore. 

And  the  ventures  of  past  years. 

Who  does  not  walk  on  the  plain  as  amid  the  col- 
umns of  Tadmore  of  the  desert?  There  is  on  the 
earth  no  institution  which  Friendship  has  established  ; 
it  is  not  taught  by  any  religion;  no  scripture  contains 
its  maxims.  It  has  no  temple,  nor  even  a  solitary  col- 
umn. There  goes  a  rumor  that  the  earth  is  inhabited, 
but  the  shipwrecked  mariner  has  not  seen  a  footprint 
on  the  shore.  The  hunter  has  found  only  fragments 
of  pottery  and  the  monuments  of  inhabitants. 

However,  our  fates  at  least  are  social.  Our  courses 
do  not  diverge  ;  but  as  the  web  of  destiny  is  woven  it 
is  fulled,  and  we  are  cast  more  and  more  into  the  centre. 
Men  naturally,  though  feebly,  seek  this  alliance,  and 
their  actions  faintly  foretell  it.  We  are  inclined  to  lay 
the  chief  stress  on  likeness  and  not  on  difference,  and 


266    A    IVEEK   ON   THE    CONCORD  RIVER. 

in  foreign  bodies  we  admit  that  there  are  many  degrees 
of  warmth  below  blood  heat,  but  none  of  cold  above  it. 

One  or  two  persons  come  to  my  house  from  time  to 
time,  there  being  proposed  to  them  the  faint  possibility 
of  intercourse.  They  are  as  full  as  they  are  silent,  and 
wait  for  my  plectrum  to  stir  the  strings  of  their  lyre. 
If  they  could  ever  come  to  the  length  of  a  sentence, 
or  hear  one,  on  that  ground  they  are  dreaming  of! 
They  speak  faintly,  and  do  not  obtrude  themselv-es. 
They  have  heard  some  news,  which  none,  not  even 
they  themselves,  can  impart.  It  is  a  wealth  they  bear 
about  them  which  can  be  expended  in  various  ways. 
What  came  they  out  to  seek? 

No  word  is  oftener  on  the  lips  of  men  than  Friend- 
ship, and  indeed  no  thought  is  more  familiar  to  their 
aspirations.  All  men  are  dreaming  of  it,  and  its 
drama,  which  is  always  a  tragedy,  is  enacted  daily.  It 
is  the  secret  of  the  universe.  You  may  thread  the 
town,  you  may  wander  the  country,  and  none  shall 
ever  speak  of  it,  yet  thought  is  everywhere  busy  about 
it,  and  the  idea  of  what  is  possible  in  this  respect 
affects  our  behavior  toward  all  new  men  and  women, 
and  a  great  many  old  ones.  Nevertheless,  I  can 
remember  only  two  or  three  essays  on  this  subject  in 
all  literature.  No  wonder  that  the  Mythology,  and 
Arabian  Nights,  and  Shakspeare,  and  Scott's  novels 
entertain  us,  —  we  are  poets  and  fablers  and  dramatists 
and  novelists  ourselves.  We  are  continually  acting  a 
part  in  a  more  interesting  drama  than  any  written.  We 
are  dreaming  that  our  Friends  divt  onr  Friends,  and  that 
we  are  our  Friends'  Friends.  Our  actual  Friends  are 
but  distant  relations  of  those  to  whom  we  are  pledged. 
We  never  exchansre  more  than    three  words  with  a 


WEDNESDA  Y.  26/ 

Friend  in  our  lives  on  that  level  to  which  our  thoughts 
and  feelings  almost  habitually  rise.  One  goes  forth 
prepared  to  say  "  Sweet  Friends  !  "  and  the  salutation 
is  "Damn  your  eyes!  "  But  never  mind  ;  faint  heart 
never  won  true  Friend.  O  my  Friend,  may  it  come 
to  pass,  once,  that  when  you  are  my  Friend  I  may  be 
yours. 

Of  what  use  the  friendliest  disposition  even,  if  there 
are  no  hours  given  to  Friendship,  if  it  is  forever 
postponed  to  unimportant  duties  and  relations? 
Friendship  is  first,  Friendship  last.  But  it  is  equally 
impossible  to  forget  our  Friends,  and  to  make  them 
answer  to  our  ideal.  When  they  say  farewell,  then 
indeed  we  begin  to  keep  them  company.  How  often 
we  find  ourselves  turning  our  backs  on  our  actual 
Friends,  that  we  may  go  and  meet  their  ideal  cousins. 
I  would  that  I  were  worthy  to  be  any  man's  Friend. 

What  is  commonly  honored  with  the  name  of 
Friendship  is  no  very  profound  or  powerful  instinct. 
Men  do  not,  after  all,  love  their  Friends  greatly.  I  do 
not  often  see  the  farmers  made  seers  and  wise  to  the 
verge  of  insanity  by  their  Friendship  for  one  another. 
They  are  not  often  transfigiu'ed  and  translated  by 
love  in  each  other's  presence.  I  do  not  observe  them 
purified,  refined,  and  elevated  by  the  love  of  a  man. 
If  one  abates  a  little  the  price  of  his  wood,  or  gives 
a  neighbor  his  vote  at  town-meeeting,  or  a  barrel  of 
apples,  or  lends  him  his  wagon  frequently,  it  is  es- 
teemed a  rare  instance  of  Friendship.  Nor  do  the 
farmers'  wives  lead  lives  consecrated  to  Friendship.  I 
do  not  see  the  pair  of  farmer  friends  of  either  sex  pre- 
pared to  stand  against  the  world.  There  are  only  two 
or  three  couples  in  history.  To  say  that  a  man  is  your 
Friend,  means  commonly  no  more  than  this,  that  he 


268    .4    WEEK   ON   THE   CONCORD   RIVER. 

is  not  your  enemy.  Most  contemplate  only  what 
would  be  the  accidental  and  trifling  advantages  of 
Friendship,  as  that  the  Friend  can  assist  in  time  of 
need,  by  his  substance,  or  his  influence,  or  his  coun- 
sel ;  but  he  who  foresees  such  advantages  in  this  rela- 
tion proves  himself  blind  to  its  real  advantage,  or 
indeed  wholly  inexperienced  in  the  relation  itself. 
Such  services  are  particular  and  menial,  compared 
with  the  perpetual  and  all-embracing  service  which  it 
is.  Even  the  utmost  good-will  and  harmony  and 
practical  kindness  are  not  sufficient  for  Friendship. 
for  Friends  do  not  live  in  harmony  merely,  as  some 
say,  but  in  melody.  We  do  not  wish  for  Friends  to 
feed  and  clothe  our  bodies,  —  neighbors  are  kind 
enough  for  that,  —  but  to  do  the  like  office  to  our 
spirits.  For  this  few  are  rich  enough,  however  well 
disposed  they  may  be. 

Think  of  the  importance  of  Friendship  in  the  edu- 
cation of  men.  It  will  make  a  man  honest ;  it  will 
make  him  a  hero  ;  it  will  make  him  a  saint.  It  is  the 
.state  of  the  just  dealing  with  the  just,  the  magnani- 
mous with  the  magnanimous,  the  sincere  with  the 
sincere,  man  with  man.  — 

"  Why  love  among  the  virtues  is  not  known, 
Is  that  love  is  them  all  contract  in  one." 

All  the  abuses  which  are  the  object  of  reform  with 
the  philanthropist,  the  statesman,  and  the  house- 
keeper, are  unconsciously  amended  in  the  intercourse 
of  Friends.  A  Friend  is  one  who  incessantly  pays 
us  the  compliment  of  expecting  from  us  all  the  virtues, 
and  who  can  appreciate  them  in  us.  It  takes  two  to 
speak  the  tnith,  —  one  to  speak,  and  another  to  hear. 
How  can  one  treat  with  magnanimitv  mere  wood  and 


WKDNESDA  Y.  269 

Stone?  If  we  dealt  only  with  the  false  and  dishonest, 
we  should  at  last  forget  how  to  speak  truth.  In 
our  daily  intercourse  with  men,  our  nobler  faculties 
are  dormant  and  suffered  to  rust.  None  will  pay  us 
the  compliment  to  expect  nobleness  from  us.  We 
ask  our  neighbor  to  suffer  himself  to  be  dealt  with 
truly,  sincerely,  nobly ;  but  he  answers  no  by  his 
deafness.  He  does  not  even  hear  this  prayer.  He 
says  practically,  —  I  will  be  content  if  you  treat 
me  as  no  better  than  I  should  be,  as  deceitful,  mean, 
dishonest,  and  selfish.  For  the  most  part,  we  are 
contented  so  to  deal  and  to  be  dealt  with,  and 
we  do  not  think  that  for  the  mass  of  men  there 
is  any  truer  and  nobler  relation  possible.  A  man 
may  have  good  neighbors,  so  called,  and  acquaint- 
ances, and  even  companions,  wife,  parents,  brothers, 
sisters,  children,  who  meet  himself  and  one  another 
on  this  ground  only.  The  State  does  not  demand 
justice  of  its  members,  but  thinks  that  it  succeeds 
very  well  with  the  least  degree  of  it.  hardly  more  than 
rogues  practise  ;  and  so  do  the  family  and  the  neigh- 
borhood. What  is  commonly  called  Friendship  even 
is  only  a  little  more  honor  among  rogues. 

But  sometimes  we  are  said  to  love  another,  that  is 
to  stand  in  a  true  relation  to  him,  so  that  we  give  the 
best  to,  and  receive  the  best  from,  him.  Between 
whom  there  is  hearty  truth  there  is  love ;  and  in  pro- 
portion to  our  truthfulness  and  confidence  in  one 
another,  our  lives  are  divine  and  miraculous,  and 
answer  to  our  ideal.  There  are  passages  of  affection 
in  our  intercourse  with  mortal  men  and  women,  such 
as  no  prophecy  had  taught  us  to  expect,  which  tran- 
scend our  earthly  life,  and  anticipate  heaven  for  us. 
What  is  this  Love  that  may  come  riglit  into  the  middle 


270    //    WEEK   OX   rilE   COXCORD   RIVER. 

of  a  prosaic  Goffstown  day,  equal  to  any  of  the  gods  ? 
that  discovers  a  new  world,  fair  and  fresh  and  eternal, 
occupying  the  place  of  this  old  one,  when  to  the  com- 
mon eye  a  dust  has  settled  on  the  universe?  which 
world  cannot  else  be  reached,  and  does  not  exist. 
What  other  words,  we  may  almost  ask,  are  memorable 
and  worthy  to  be  repeated  than  those  which  love  has 
inspired?  It  is  wonderful  that  they  were  ever  uttered. 
They  are  few  and  rare,  indeed,  but,  like  a  strain  of 
music,  they  are  incessantly  repeated  and  modulated 
by  the  memory.  All  other  words  crumble  oft'  with 
the  stucco  which  overlies  the  heart.  We  should  not 
dare  to  repeat  them  now  aloud.  We  are  not  compe- 
tent to  hear  them  at  all  times. 

The  books  for  young  people  say  a  great  deal  about 
the  selection  of  Friends ;  it  is  because  they  really 
have  nothing  to  say  about  Friends.  They  mean 
associates  and  confidants  merely.  *•  Know  that  the 
contrariety  of  foe  and  Friend  proceeds  from  God." 
Friendship  takes  place  between  those  who  have  an 
affinity  for  one  another,  and  is  a  perfectly  natural  and 
inevitable  result.  No  professions  nor  advances  will 
avail.  Even  speech,  at  first,  necessarily  has  nothing 
to  do  with  it ;  but  it  follows  after  silence,  as  the  buds 
in  the  graft  do  not  put  forth  into  leaves  till  long 
after  the  graft  has  taken.  It  is  a  drama  in  which  the 
parties  have  no  part  to  act.  W^e  are  all  Mussul- 
mans and  fatalists  in  this  respect.  Impatient  and 
uncertain  lovers  think  that  they  must  say  or  do  some- 
thing kind  whenever  they  meet ;  they  must  never  be 
cold.  But  they  who  are  Friends  do  not  do  what 
they  think  they  must,  but  what  they  must.  Even  their 
Friendship  is  in  one  sense  but  a  sublime  phenome- 
non to  them. 


WEDXESDAY.  2/1 

The  true  and  not  despairing  Friend  will  address  his 
Friend  in  some  such  terms  as  these. 

••  I  never  asked  thy  leave  to  let  me  love  thee.  —  I 
have  a  right.  I  love  thee  not  as  something  private 
and  personal,  which  is  your  own,  but  as  something 
universal  and  worthy  of  love,  which  I  have  found. 
O  how  I  think  of  you !  You  are  purely  good,  —  you 
are  infinitely  good.  I  can  trust  you  forever.  I  did 
not  think  that  humanity  was  so  rich.  Give  me  an 
opportunity  to  live.'" 

"You  are  the  fact  in  a  fiction,  —  you  are  the  truth 
more  strange  and  admirable  than  fiction.  Consent 
only  to  be  what  you  are.  I  alone  will  never  stand  in 
your  way." 

"This  is  what  I  would  like,  —  to  be  as  intimate 
with  you  as  our  spirits  are  intimate,  —  respecting  you 
as  I  respect  my  ideal.  Never  to  profane  one  another 
by  word  or  action,  even  by  a  thought.  Between  us, 
if  necessary,  let  there  be  no  acquaintance." 

"  I  have  discovered  you  ;  how  can  you  be  concealed 
from  me?" 

The  Friend  asks  no  return  but  that  his  Friend  will 
religiously  accept  and  wear  and  not  disgrace  his 
apotheosis  of  him.  They  cherish  each  other's  hopes. 
They  are  kind  to  each  other's  dreams. 

Though  the  poet  says,  "  T  is  the  preeminence  of 
Friendship  to  impute  excellence,"  yet  we  can  never 
praise  our  Friend,  nor  esteem  him  praiseworthy,  nor 
let  him  think  that  he  can  please  us  by  any  behavior. 
or  ever  treat  us  well  enough.  That  kindness  which 
has  so  good  a  reputation  elsewhere  can  least  of  all 
consist  with  this  relation,  and  no  such  affront  can  be 


2/3    A    WEEK   ON   THE   CONCORD  RIVER. 

offered  to  a  Friend,  as  a  conscious  good-will,  a  friend- 
liness which  is  not  a  necessity  of  the  Friend's  nature. 

The  sexes  are  naturally  most  strongly  attracted  to 
one  another,  by  constant  constitutional  differences, 
and  are  most  commonly  and  surely  the  complements 
of  one  another.  How  natural  and  easy  it  is  for  man 
to  secure  the  attention  of  woman  to  what  interests 
himself.  Men  and  women  of  equal  culture,  thrown 
together,  are  sure  to  be  of  a  certain  value  to  one 
another,  more  than  men  to  men.  There  exists  already 
a  natural  disinterestedness  and  Hberality  in  such 
society,  and  I  think  that  any  man  will  more  confi- 
dently carry  his  favorite  books  to  read  to  some  circle 
of  intelligent  women,  than  to  one  of  his  own  sex. 
The  visit  of  man  to  man  is  wont  to  be  an  interruption, 
but  the  sexes  naturally  expect  one  another.  Yet 
Friendship  is  no  respecter  of  sex ;  and  perhaps  it  is 
more  rare  between  the  sexes,  than  between  two  of  the 
same  sex. 

Friendship  is.  at  any  rate,  a  relation  of  perfect 
equality.  It  cannot  well  spare  any  outward  sign  of 
equal  obligation  and  advantage.  The  nobleman  can 
never  have  a  Friend  among  his  retainers,  nor  the  king 
among  his  subjects.  Not  that  the  parties  to  it  are  in 
all  respects  equal,  but  they  are  equal  in  all  that  respects 
or  affects  their  Friendship.  The  one's  love  is  exactly 
balanced  and  represented  by  the  other's.  Persons  are 
only  the  vessels  which  contain  the  nectar,  and  the  hy- 
drostatic paradox  is  the  symbol  of  love's  law.  It  finds 
its  level  and  rises  to  its  fountain-head  in  all  breasts, 
and  its  slenderest  column  balances  the  ocean. — 


Love  equals  swift  and  slow. 
And  high  and  low, 


WEDNESDAY.  2/3 

Racer  and  lame, 

The  hunter  and  his  game. 

The  one  sex  is  not,  in  this  respect,  more  tender  than 
the  other.     A  hero's  love  is  as  delicate  as  a  maiden's. 

Confucius  said,  "  Never  contract  Friendship  with  a 
man  that  is  not  better  than  thyself."  It  is  the  merit 
and  preservation  of  Friendship,  that  it  takes  place  on 
a  level  higher  than  the  actual  characters  of  the  parties 
would  seem  to  warrant.  The  rays  of  light  come  to 
us  in  such  a  curve  that  every  man  whom  we  meet 
appears  to  be  taller  than  he  actually  is.  Such  founda- 
tion has  civility.  My  Friend  is  that  one  whom  I  can 
associate  with  my  choicest  thought.  I  always  assign 
to  him  a  nobler  employment  in  my  absence  than  I 
ever  find  him  engaged  in;  and  I  imagine  that  the 
hours  which  he  devotes  to  me  were  snatched  from  a 
higher  society.  The  sorest  insult  which  I  ever  re- 
ceived from  a  Friend  was,  when  he  behaved  with  the 
license  which  only  long  and  cheap  acquaintance  allows 
to  one's  faults,  in  my  presence,  without  shame,  and 
still  addressed  me  in  friendly  accents.  Beware,  lest 
thy  Friend  learn  at  last  to  tolerate  one  frailty  of  thine, 
and  so  an  obstacle  be  raised  to  the  progress  of  thy 
love. 

Friendship  is  never  established  as  an  understood 
relation.  Do  you  demand  that  I  be  less  your  Friend 
that  you  may  know  it  ?  Yet  what  right  have  I  to 
think  that  another  cherishes  so  rare  a  sentiment  for 
me?  It  is  a  miracle  which  requires  constant  proofs. 
It  is  an  exercise  of  the  purest  imagination  and  the 
rarest  faith.  It  says  by  a  silent  but  eloquent  be- 
havior, —  "I  will  be  so  related  to  thee  as  thou  canst 
imagine  ;  even  so  thou  mayest  believe.  I  will  spend 
tmth.  —  all    my  wealth  on    thee,"  —  and    the  Friend 


2/4    -^    WEEK   OX   THE    CO y CORD   RIVER. 

responds  silently  through  his  nature  and  life,  and 
treats  his  Friend  with  the  same  divine  courtesy.  He 
knows  us  literally  through  thick  and  thin.  He  never 
asks  for  a  sign  of  love,  but  can  distinguish  it  by  the 
features  which  it  naturally  wears.  We  never  need  to 
stand  upon  ceremony  with  him  with  regard  to  his 
visits.  Wait  not  till  I  invite  thee,  but  observe  that 
I  am  glad  to  see  thee  when  thou  comest.  It  would 
be  paying  too  dear  for  thy  visit  to  ask  for  it.  Where 
my  Friend  lives  there  are  all  riches  and  every  attrac- 
tion, and  no  slight  obstacle  can  keep  me  from  him. 
Let  me  never  have  to  tell  thee  what  I  have  not  to  tell. 
Let  our  intercourse  be  wholly  above  ourselves,  and  draw 
us  up  to  it.  The  language  of  Friendship  is  not  words 
but  meanings.  It  is  an  intelligence  above  language. 
One  imagines  endless  conversations  with  his  Friend, 
in  which  the  tongue  shall  be  loosed,  and  thoughts 
be  spoken  without  hesitancy,  or  end ;  but  the  experi- 
ence is  commonly  far  otherwise.  Acquaintances  may 
come  and  go,  and  have  a  word  ready  for  every  occa- 
sion :  but  what  puny  word  shall  he  utter  whose  very 
breath  is  thought  and  meaning?  Suppose  you  go  to 
bid  farewell  to  your  Friend  who  is  setting  out  on  a 
journey :  what  other  outward  sign  do  you  know  of 
than  to  shake  his  hand  ?  Have  you  any  palaver  ready 
for  him  then  ?  any  box  of  salve  to  commit  to  his  pocket  ? 
any  particular  message  to  send  by  him  ?  any  state- 
ment which  you  had  forgotten  to  make  ?  —  as  if  you 
could  forget  anything. —  No,  it  is  much  that  you  take 
his  hand  and  say  Farewell ;  that  you  could  easily 
omit ;  so  far  custom  has  prevailed.  It  is  even  pain- 
ful, if  he  is  to  go,  that  he  should  linger  so  long.  If  he 
must  go,  let  him  go  quickly.  Have  you  any  last  words  ? 
Alas,  it  is  only  the  word  of  words,  which  you  have  so 


WEDNESDAY.  2/5 

long  sought  and  found  not ;  you  have  not  2.  first  word 
yet.  There  are  few  even  whom  I  should  venture  to  call 
earnestly  by  their  most  proper  names.  A  name  pro- 
nounced is  the  recognition  of  the  individual  to  whom 
it  belongs.  He  who  can  pronounce  my  name  aright, 
he  can  call  me,  and  is  entitled  to  my  love  and  service. 

The  violence  of  love  is  as  much  to  be  dreaded  as 
that  of  hate.  When  it  is  durable  it  is  serene  and 
equable.  Even  its  famous  pains  begin  only  with  the 
ebb  of  love,  for  few  are  indeed  lovers,  though  all  would 
fain  be.  It  is  one  proof  of  a  man's  fitness  for  Friend- 
ship that  he  is  able  to  do  without  that  which  is  cheap 
and  passionate.  A  true  Friendship  is  as  wise  as  it 
is  tender.  The  parties  to  it  yield  implicitly  to  the 
guidance  of  their  love,  and  know  no  other  law  nor 
kindness.  It  is  not  extravagant  and  insane,  but  what 
it  says  is  something  established  henceforth,  and  will 
bear  to  be  stereotyped.  It  is  a  truer  truth,  it  is  better 
and  fairer  news,  and  no  time  will  ever  shame  it,  or 
prove  it  false.  This  is  a  plant  which  thrives  best  in 
a  temperate  zone,  where  summer  and  winter  alternate 
with  one  another.  The  Fjiend  is  a  necessarius^  and 
meets  his  Friend  on  homely  ground ;  not  on  carpets 
and  cushions,  but  on  the  ground  and  on  rocks  they 
will  sit,  obeying  the  natural  and  primitive  laws.  They 
will  meet  without  any  outcry,  and  part  without  loud 
sorrow.  Their  relation  implies  such  qualities  as  the 
warrior  prizes ;  for  it  takes  a  valor  to  open  the  hearts 
of  men  as  well  as  the  gates  of  cities. 

The  Friendship  which  Wawatam  testified  for  Henry 
the  fur-trader,  as  described  in  the  latter's  "Adven- 
tures,'' so  almost  bare  and  leafless,  yet  not  blossom- 
less  nor  fruitless,  is  remembered  with  satisfaction  and 
security.     The  stern  imperturbable  warrior,  after  fast- 


276    A    WEE  A'   OX   THE    COXCORD   RIVER. 

ing,  solitude,  and  mortification  of  body,  comes  to  the 
white  man"s  lodge,  and  affirms  that  he  is  the  white 
brother  whom  he  saw  in  his  dream,  and  adopts  him 
henceforth.  He  buries  the  hatchet  as  it  regards  his 
friend,  and  they  hunt  and  feast  and  make  maple-sugar 
together.  '•  Metals  unite  from  fluxility ;  birds  and 
beasts  from  motives  of  convenience ;  fools  from  fear 
and  stupidity:  and  just  men  at  sight."  IfWawatam 
would  taste  the  "  white  man's  milk  '■'  with  his  tribe,  or 
take  his  bowl  of  human  broth  made  of  the  trader's 
fellow-countrymen,  he  first  finds  a  place  of  safety  for 
his  Friend,  whom  he  has  rescued  from  a  similar  fate. 
At  length,  after  a  long  winter  of  undisturbed  and  happy 
intercourse  in  the  family  of  the  chieftain  in  the  wilder- 
ness, hunting  and  fishing,  they  return  in  the  spring  to 
Michilimackinac  to  dispose  of  their  furs ;  and  it  be- 
comes necessary  for  Wawatam  to  take  leave  of  his 
Friend  at  the  Isle  aux  Outardes,  when  the  latter,  to 
avoid  his  enemies,  proceeded  to  the  Sault  de  Sainte 
Marie,  supposing  that  they  were  to  be  separated  for 
a  short  time  only.  *•  We  now  exchanged  farewells,'' 
says  Henry,  ''with  an  emotion  entirely  reciprocal.  I 
did  not  quit  the  lodge  without  the  most  grateful  sense 
of  the  many  acts  of  goodness  which  I  had  experienced 
in  it.  nor  without  the  sincerest  respect  for  the  virtues 
which  I  had  witnessed  among  its  members.  All  the 
family  accompanied  me  to  the  beach  ;  and  the  canoe 
had  no  sooner  put  off  than  Wawatam  commenced  an 
address  to  the  Kichi  Manito,  beseeching  him  to  take 
care  of  me,  his  brother,  till  we  should  next  meet. — 
We  had  proceeded  to  too  great  a  distance  to  allow  of 
our  hearing  his  voice,  before  Wawatam  had  ceased 
to  offer  up  his  prayers."'  We  never  hear  of  him 
aeain. 


W ED  N BSD  A  V.  2  /  / 

Friendship  is  not  so  kind  as  is  imagined ;  it  has 
not  much  human  blood  in  it,  but  consists  with  a  cer- 
tain disregard  for  men  and  their  erections,  the  Chris- 
tian duties  and  humanities,  while  it  purifies  the  air 
like  electricity.  There  may  be  the  sternest  tragedy 
in  the  relation  of  two  more  than  usually  innocent  and 
true  to  their  highest  instincts.  We  may  call  it  an 
essentially  heathenish  intercourse,  free  and  irrespon- 
sible in  its  nature,  and  practising  all  the  virtues  gra- 
tuitously. It  is  not  the  highest  sympathy  merely,  but 
a  pure  and  lofty  society,  a  fragmentary  and  godlike 
intercourse  of  ancient  date,  still  kept  up  at  intervals, 
which,  remembering  itself,  does  not  hesitate  to  dis- 
regard the  humbler  rights  and  duties  of  humanity. 
It  requires  immaculate  and  godlike  qualities  full- 
grown,  and  exists  at  all  only  by  condescension  and 
anticipation  of  the  remotest  future.  We  love  noth- 
ing which  is  merely  good  and  not  fair,  if  such  a  thing 
is  possible.  Nature  puts  some  kind  of  blossom  before 
every  fruit,  not  simply  a  calyx  behind  it.  WHien  the 
Friend  comes  out  of  his  heathenism  and  superstition, 
and  breaks  his  idols,  being  converted  by  the  precepts 
of  a  newer  testament ;  when  he  forgets  his  mythology, 
and  treats  his  Friend  like  a  Christian,  or  as  he  can 
afford ;  then  Friendship  ceases  to  be  Friendship,  and 
becomes  charity ;  that  principle  which  established  the 
almshouse  is  now  beginning  with  its  charity  at  home, 
and  establishing  an  almshouse  and  pauper  relations 
there. 

As  for  the  number  which  this  society  admits,  it  is 
at  any  rate  to  be  begun  with  one,  the  noblest  and 
greatest  that  we  know,  and  whether  the  world  will 
ever  carry  it  further,  whether,  as  Chaucer  affirms. 


2y?>    A    WEEK   OX   THE    CONCORD  RIVER. 

"  There  be  mo  sterres  in  the  skie  than  a  pair," 

remains  to  be  proved  ;  — 

"  And  certaine  he  is  well  begone 
Among  a  thousand  that  findeth  one." 

We  shall  not  surrender  ourselves  heartily  to  any  while 
we  are  conscious  that  another  is  more  deserving  of 
our  love.  Yet  Friendship  does  not  stand  for  num- 
bers :  the  Friend  does  not  count  his  Friends  on  his 
fingers :  they  are  not  numerable.  The  more  there 
are  included  by  this  bond,  if  they  are  indeed  included, 
the  rarer  and  diviner  the  quality  of  the  love  that  binds 
them.  I  am  ready  to  believe  that  as  private  and  inti- 
mate a  relation  may  exist  by  which  three  are  embraced. 
as  between  two.  Indeed  we  cannot  have  too  many 
friends ;  the  virtue  which  we  appreciate  we  to  some 
extent  appropriate,  so  that  thus  we  are  made  at  last 
more  fit  for  every  relation  of  life.  A  base  Friendship 
is  of  a  narrowing  and  exclusive  tendency,  but  a  noble 
one  is  not  exclusive  :  its  very  superfluity  and  dispersed 
love  is  the  humanity  which  sweetens  society,  and  sym- 
pathizes with  foreign  nations  ;  for  though  its  founda- 
tions are  private,  it  is  in  effect,  a  public  affair  and  a 
public  advantage,  and  the  Friend,  more  than  the 
father  of  a  family,  deserves  well  of  the  state. 

The  only  danger  in  Friendship  is  that  it  will  end. 
It  is  a  delicate  plant  though  a  native.  The  least  un- 
worthiness,  even  if  it  be  unknown  to  one's  self,  vitiates 
it.  Let  the  Friend  know  that  those  faults  which  he 
observes  in  his  Friend  his  own  faults  attract.  There 
is  no  rule  more  invariable  than  that  we  are  paid  for 
our  suspicions  by  finding  what  we  suspected.      By 


WEDNESDAY.  2/9 

our  narrowness  and  prejudices  we  say,  I  will  have 
so  much  and  such  of  you,  my  Friend,  no  more. 
Perhaps  there  are  none  charitable,  none  disinterested, 
none  wise,  noble,  and  heroic  enough,  for  a  true  and 
lasting  Friendship. 

I  sometimes  hear  my  Friends  complain  finely  that  I 
do  not  appreciate  their  fineness.  I  shall  not  tell  them 
whether  I  do  or  not.  As  if  they  expected  a  vote  of 
thanks  for  every  fine  thing  which  they  uttered  or  did. 
Who  knows  but  it  was  finely  appreciated.  It  may  be 
that  your  silence  was  the  finest  thing  of  the  two. 
There  are  some  things  which  a  man  never  speaks  of, 
which  are  much  finer  kept  silent  about.  To  the  high- 
est communications  we  only  lend  a  silent  ear.  Our 
finest  relations  are  not  simply  kept  silent  about,  but 
buried  under  a  positive  depth  of  silence,  never  to  be 
revealed.  It  may  be  that  we  are  not  even  yet  ac- 
quainted. In  human  intercourse  the  tragedy  begins, 
not  when  there  is  misunderstanding  about  words,  but 
when  silence  is  not  understood.  Then  there  can 
never  be  an  explanation.  What  avails  it  that  another 
loves  you,  if  he  does  not  understand  you?  Such  love 
is  a  curse.  What  sort  of  companions  are  they  who 
are  presuming  always  that  their  silence  is  more  expres- 
sive than  yours?  How  foolish,  and  inconsiderate,  and 
unjust,  to  conduct  as  if  you  were  the  only  party  ag- 
grieved! Has  not  your  Friend  always  equal  ground 
of  complaint?  No  doubt  my  Friends  sometimes  speak 
to  me  in  vain,  but  they  do  not  know  what  things  I 
hear  which  they  are  not  aware  that  they  have  spoken. 
I  know  that  I  have  frequently  disappointed  them  by 
not  giving  them  words  when  they  expected  them,  or 
such  as  they  expected.  Whenever  I  see  my  P>iend  I 
speak  to  him,  but  the  expector,  the  man  with  the  ears, 


28o    ^    WEEK   OX   THE    COXCORD  RIVER. 

is  not  he.  They  will  complain  too  that  you  are  hard. 
O  ye  that  would  have  the  cocoa-nut  wrong  side  out- 
wards, when  next  I  weep  I  will  let  you  know.  They 
ask  for  words  and  deeds,  when  a  true  relation  is  word 
and  deed.  If  they  know  not  of  these  things,  how  can 
they  be  informed?  We  often  forbear  to  confess  our 
feelings,  not  from  pride,  but  for  fear  that  we  could  not 
continue  to  love  the  one  who  required  us  to  give  such 
proof  of  our  affection. 

I  know  a  woman  who  possesses  a  restless  and  intelli- 
gent mind,  interested  in  her  own  culture,  and  earnest 
to  enjoy  the  highest  possible  advantages,  and  I  meet 
her  with  pleasure  as  a  natural  person  who  not  a  little 
provokes  me,  and  I  suppose  is  stimulated  in  turn 
by  myself.  Yet  our  acquaintance  plainly  does  not 
attain  to  that  degree  of  confidence  and  sentiment 
which  women,  which  all,  in  fact,  covet.  I  am  glad  to 
help  her.  as  I  am  helped  by  her ;  I  like  very  well  to 
know  her  with  a  sort  of  stranger's  privilege,  and  hesi- 
tate to  visit  her  often,  like  her  other  Friends.  My 
nature  pauses  here,  I  do  not  well  know  why.  Per- 
haps she  does  not  make  the  highest  demand  on  me. 
a  religious  demand.  Some,  with  whose  prejudices  or 
peculiar  bias  I  have  no  sympathy,  yet  inspire  me  with 
confidence,  and  I  tmst  that  they  confide  in  me  also  as 
a  religious  heathen  at  least,  —  a  good  Greek.  I  too 
have  principles  as  well  founded  as  their  own.  If  this 
person  could  conceive  that,  without  wilfulness,  I  asso- 
ciate with  her  as  far  as  our  destinies  are  coincident,  as 
i-AX  as  our  Good  Geniuses  permit,  and  still  value  such 
intercourse,  it  would  be  a  grateful  assurance  to  me.  I 
feel  as  if  I  appeared  careless,  indifferent,  and  without 
principle  to  her,  not  expecting  more,  and  yet  not  con- 
tent with  less.     If  she  could  know  that  I  make  an 


I 


WEDXESDA  y.  281 


would  see  that  this  tme  though  incomplete  intercourse, 
is  infinitely  better  than  a  more  unreserved  but  falsely 
grounded  one,  without  the  principle  of  growth  in  it. 
For  a  companion,  I  require  one  who  will  make  an 
equal  demand  on  me  with  my  own  genius.  Such  a 
one  will  always  be  rightly  tolerant.  It  is  suicide  and 
corrupts  good  manners  to  welcome  any  less  than  this. 
I  value  and  trust  those  who  love  and  praise  my  aspira- 
tion rather  than  my  performance.  If  you  would  not 
stop  to  look  at  me,  but  look  whither  I  am  looking  and 
fm-ther,  then  my  education  could  not  dispense  with 
your  company. 

My  love  must  be  as  free 

As  is  the  eagle's  wing, 
Hovering  o'er  land  and  sea 

And  everything. 

I  must  not  dim  my  eye 

In  thy  saloon, 
I  must  not  leave  my  sky 

And  nightly  moon. 

Be  not  the  fowler's  net 

Which  stays  my  flight, 
And  craftily  is  set 

T'  allure  the  sight. 

But  be  the  favoring  gale 

That  bears  me  on. 
And  still  doth  fill  my  sail 

When  thou  art  gone. 

I  cannot  leave  my  sky 

For  thy  caprice, 
True  love  would  soar  as  high 

As  heaven  is. 


282    ./    WEEK   ON   THE   COX  CORD   RIVER. 

The  eagle  would  not  brook 

Her  mate  thus  won, 
Who  trained  his  eye  to  look 

Beneath  the  sun. 

Nothing  is  so  difficult  as  to  help  a  Friend  in  matters 
which  do  not  require  the  aid  of  Friendship,  but  only 
a  cheap  and  trivial  service,  if  your  Friendship  wants 
the  basis  of  a  thorough  practical  acquaintance.  I 
stand  in  the  friendliest  relation,  on  social  and  spiritual 
grounds,  to  one  who  does  not  perceive  what  practical 
skill  I  have,  but  w^hen  he  seeks  my  assistance  in  such 
matters,  is  wholly  ignorant  of  that  one  whom  he  deals 
with ;  does  not  use  my  skill,  which  in  such  matters  is 
much  greater  than  his,  but  only  my  hands.  I  know 
another,  who,  on  the  contrary,  is  remarkable  for  his 
discrimination  in  tliis  respect  ;  who  knows  how  to 
make  use  of  the  talents  of  others  when  he  does  not 
possess  the  same ;  knows  when  not  to  look  after  or 
oversee,  and  stops  short  at  his  man.  It  is  a  rare 
pleasure  to  serve  him,  which  all  laborers  know.  I  am 
not  a  little  pained  by  the  other  kind  of  treatment.  It 
is  as  if,  after  the  friendliest  and  most  ennobling  inter- 
course, your  Friend  should  use  you  as  a  hammer  and 
drive  a  nail  with  your  head,  all  in  good  faith  ;  not- 
withstanding that  you  are  a  tolerable  carpenter,  as 
well  as  his  good  Friend,  and  would  use  a  hammer 
cheerfully  in  his  service.  This  want  of  perception  is 
a  defect  which  all  the  virtues  of  the  heart  cannot 
supply.  — 

The  Good  how  can  we  trust  ? 
Only  the  Wise  are  just. 
The  Good  we  use, 
The  Wise  we  cannot  choose. 
These  tliere  am  none  above ; 


WEDNESDAY.  283 

The  Good  they  know  and  love, 
But  are  not  known  again 
By  those  of  lesser  ken. 
They  do  not  charm  us  with  their  eyes, 
But  they  transfix  with  their  advice ; 
No  partial  sympathy  they  feel 
With  private  woe  or  private  weal, 
But  with  the  universe  joy  and  sigh, 
Whose  knowledge  is  their  sympathy. 

Confucius  said,  "  To  contract  ties  of  Friendship 
with  any  one,  is  to  contract  Friendship  with  his 
virtue.  There  ought  not  to  be  any  other  motive  in 
Friendship."  But  men  wish  us  to  contract  Friend- 
ship with  their  vice  also.  I  have  a  Friend  who  wishes 
me  to  see  that  to  be  right  which  I  know  to  be  wrong. 
But  if  Friendship  is  to  rob  me  of  my  eyes,  if  it  is  to 
darken  the  day,  I  will  have  none  of  it.  It  should  be 
expansive  and  inconceivably  liberalizing  in  its  effects. 
True  Friendship  can  afford  true  knowledge.  It  does 
not  depend  on  darkness  and  ignorance.  A  want  of 
discernment  cannot  be  an  ingredient  in  it.  If  I  can 
see  my  Friend's  virtues  more  distinctly  than  another's, 
his  faults  too  are  made  more  conspicuous  by  contrast. 
We  have  not  so  good  a  right  to  hate  any  as  our 
Friend.  Faults  are  not  the  less  faults  because  they 
are  invariably  balanced  by  corresponding  virtues,  and 
for  a  fault  there  is  no  excuse,  though  it  may  appear 
greater  than  it  is  in  many  ways.  I  have  never  known 
one  who  could  bear  criticism,  who  could  not  be  flat- 
tered, who  would  not  bribe  his  judge,  or  was  content 
that  the  truth  should  be  loved  always  better  than  him- 
self. 

If  two  travellers  would  go  their  way  harmoniously 
together,  the  one  must  take  as  true  and  just  a  view  of 
things  as  the  other,  else  their  path  will  not  be  strewn 


284    -^    WEEK   ON   THE    CONCORD  RIVER. 

with  roses.  Yet  you  can  travel  profitably  and  pleas- 
antly even  with  a  blind  man,  if  he  practises  common 
courtesy,  and  when  you  converse  about  the  scenery 
will  remember  that  he  is  blind  but  that  you  can  see ; 
and  you  will  not  forget  that  his  sense  of  hearing  is 
probably  quickened  by  his  want  of  sight.  Otherwise 
you  will  not  long  keep  company.  A  blind  man.  and 
a  man  in  whose  eyes  there  was  no  defect,  were  walk- 
ing together,  when  they  came  to  the  edge  of  a  preci- 
pice, —  "  Take  care  !  my  friend,"  said  the  latter,  '•  here 
is  a  steep  precipice ;  go  no  further  this  way."  —  "I 
know  better,"  said  the  other,  and  stepped  off. 

It  is  impossible  to  say  all  that  we  think,  even  to 
our  truest  Friend.  We  may  bid  him  farewell  forever 
sooner  than  complain,  for  our  complaint  is  too  well 
grounded  to  be  uttered.  There  is  not  so  good  an 
understanding  between  any  two,  but  the  exposure  by 
the  one  of  a  serious  fault  in  the  other  will  produce  a 
misunderstanding  in  proportion  to  its-heinousness. 
The  constitutional  differences  which  always  exist,  and 
are  obstacles  to  a  perfect  Friendship,  are  forever  a 
forbidden  theme  to  the  lips  of  Friends.  They  advise 
by  their  whole  behavior.  Nothing  can  reconcile  them 
but  love.  They  are  fatally  late  when  they  undertake 
to  explain  and  treat  with  one  another  like  foes.  Who 
will  take  an  apology  for  a  Friend?  They  must  apol- 
ogize like  dew  and  frost,  which  are  off  again  with  the 
sun,  and  which  all  men  know  in  their  hearts  to  be 
beneficent.  The  necessity  itself  for  explanation, — 
what  explanation  will  atone  for  that?  True  love  does 
not  quarrel  for  slight  reasons,  such  mistakes  as  mu- 
tual acquaintances  can  explain  away,  but  alas,  how- 
ever slight  the  apparent  cause,  only  for  adequate  and 
fatal  and  everlasting:  reasons,  which  can  never  be  set 


WEDNESDAY.  285 

aside.  Its  quarrel,  if  there  is  any,  is  ever  recurring, 
notwitlistanding  the  beams  of  affection  which  invari- 
ably come  to  gild  its  tears ;  as  the  rainbow,  however 
beautiful  and  unerring  a  sign,  does  not  promise  fair 
weather  forever,  but  only  for  a  season.  I  have  known 
two  or  three  persons  pretty  well,  and  yet  I  have  never 
known  advice  to  be  of  use  but  in  trivial  and  transient 
matters.  One  may  know  what  another  does  not,  but 
the  utmost  kindness  cannot  impart  what  is  requisite 
to  make  the  advice  useful.  We  must  accept  or  re- 
fuse one  another  as  we  are.  I  could  tame  a  hyena 
more  easily  than  my  Friend.  He  is  a  material  which 
no  tool  of  mine  will  work.  A  naked  savage  will  fell 
an  oak  with  a  fire-brand,  and  wear  a  hatchet  out  of 
the  rock  by  friction,  but  I  cannot  hew  the  smallest 
chip  out  of  the  character  of  my  Friend,  either  to 
beautify  or  deform  it. 

The  lover  learns  at  last  that  there  is  no  person 
quite  transparent  and  trustworthy,  but  every  one  has 
a  devil  in  him  that  is  capable  of  any  crime  in  the  long 
run.  Yet,  as  an  oriental  philosopher  has  said, ''Al- 
though Friendship  between  good  men  is  interrupted, 
their  principles  remain  unaltered.  The  stalk  of 
the  lotus  may  be  broken,  and  the  fibres  remain 
connected." 

Ignorance  and  bungling  with  love  are  better  than 
wisdom  and  skill  without.  There  may  be  courtesy, 
there  may  be  even  temper,  and  wit,  and  talent,  and 
sparkling  conversation,  there  may  be  good-will  even, 
—  and  yet  the  humanest  and  divinest  faculties  pine 
for  exercise.  Oar  life  without  love  is  like  coke  and 
ashes.  Men  may  be  pure  as  alabaster  and  Parian 
marble,  elegant  as  a  Tuscan  villa,  sul)lime  as  Niagara, 


286    .-}    WEEK   OX   THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

and  yet  if  there  is  no  milk  mingled  with  the  wine  at 
their  entertainments,  better  is  the  hospitality  of  Goths 
and  Vandals.  My  Friend  is  not  of  some  other  race 
or  family  of  men,  but  flesh  of  my  flesh,  bone  of  my 
bone.  He  is  my  real  brother.  I  see  his  nature  grop- 
ing yonder  so  like  mine.  We  do  not  live  far  apart. 
Have  not  the  fates  associated  us  in  many  ways?  Is 
it  of  no  significance  that  we  have  so  long  partaken  of 
the  same  loaf,  drank  at  the  same  fountain,  breathed 
the  same  air,  summer  and  winter,  felt  the  same  heat 
and  cold ;  that  the  same  fruits  have  been  pleased  to 
refresh  us  both,  and  we  have  never  had  a  thought  of 
ditferent  fibre  the  one  from  the  other! 

Nature  doth  have  her  dawn  each  day, 

But  mine  are  far  between ; 
Content,  I  cry,  for  sooth  to  say. 

Mine  brightest  are  I  ween. 

For  when  my  sun  doth  deign  to  rise, 

Though  it  be  her  noontide, 
Her  fairest  field  in  shadow  lies, 

Nor  can  my  light  abide. 

Sometimes  I  bask  me  in  her  day, 

Conversing  with  my  mate, 
But  if  we  interchange  one  ray, 

Forthwith  her  heats  abate. 

Through  his  discourse  I  climb  and  see, 

As  from  some  eastern  hill, 
A  brighter  morrow  rise  to  me 

Than  lieth  in  her  skill. 

As  'twere  two  summer  days  in  one, 

Two  Sundays  come  together. 
Our  rays  united  make  one  sun, 

With  fairest  summer  weather. 


WEDiVESDA  Y.  287 

As  surely  as  the  sunset  in  my  latest  November 
shall  translate  me  to  the  ethereal  world,  and  remind  me 
of  the  ruddy  morning  of  youth  ;  as  surely  as  the  last 
strain  of  music  which  falls  on  my  decaying  ear  shall 
make  age  to  be  forgotten,  or,  in  short,  the  manifold 
influences  of  nature  survive  during  the  term  of  our 
natural  life,  so  surely  my  Friend  shall  forever  be  my 
Friend,  and  reflect  a  ray  of  God  to  me,  and  time 
shall  foster  and  adorn  and  consecrate  our  Friend- 
ship, no  less  than  the  ruins  of  temples.  As  I  love 
nature,  as  I  love  singing  birds,  and  gleaming  stubble, 
and  flowing  rivers,  and  morning  and  evening,  and 
summer  and  winter,  I  love  thee,  my  Friend. 

But  all  that  can  be  said  of  Friendship,  is  like  bot- 
any to  flowers.  How  can  the  understanding  take 
account  of  its  friendliness  '^ 

Even  the  death  of  Friends  will  inspire  us  as  much 
as  their  lives.  They  will  leave  consolation  to  the 
mourners,  as  the  rich  leave  money  to  defray  the  ex- 
penses of  their  funerals,  and  their  memories  will  be 
incrusted  over  with  sublime  and  pleasing  thoughts,  as 
their  monuments  are  overgrown  with  moss. 

This  to  our  cis-Alpine  and  cis-Atlantic  Friends. 

Also  this  other  word  of  entreaty  and  advice  to  the 
large  and  respectable  nation  of  Acquaintances,  beyond 
the  mountains  ;  —  Greeting. 

My  most  serene  and  irresponsible  neighbors,  let  us 
see  that  we  have  the  whole  advantage  of  each  other ; 
we  will  be  useful,  at  least,  if  not  admirable,  to  one 
another.  I  know  that  the  mountains  which  separate 
us  are  high,  and  covered  with  perpetual  snow,  but 
despair  not.     Improve  the  serene  winter  weather  to 


288    .7    WEEK   OX   THE    COXCORD    RIVER. 

scale  them.  If  need  be,  soften  the  rocks  with  vine- 
gar. For  here  lie  the  verdant  plains  of  Italy  ready  to 
receive  you.  Nor  shall  I  be  slow  on  my  side  to  pene- 
trate to  your  Provence.  Strike  then  boldly  at  head 
or  heart  or  any  vital  part.  Depend  upon  it  the 
timber  is  well  seasoned  and  tough,  and  will  bear 
rough  usage ;  and  if  it  should  crack,  there  is  plentv 
more  where  it  came  from.  I  am  no  piece  of  crockerv 
that  cannot  be  jostled  against  my  neighbor  without 
danger  of  being  broken  by  the  collision,  and  must 
needs  ring  false  and  jarringly  to  the  end  of  my  days, 
when  once  I  am  cracked ;  but  rather  one  of  the  old 
fashioned  wooden  trenchers,  which  one  while  stands 
at  the  head  of  the  table,  and  at  another  is  a  milking- 
stool,  and  at  another  a  seat  for  children,  and  finally 
goes  down  to  its  grave  not  unadorned  with  honorable 
scars,  and  does  not  die  till  it  is  worn  out.  Nothing 
can  shock  a  brave  man  but  dulness.  Think  how 
many  rebuffs  every  man  has  experienced  in  his  day : 
perhaps  has  fallen  into  a  horse-pond,  eaten  fresh- 
water clams,  or  worn  one  shirt  for  a  week  without 
washing.  Indeed,  you  cannot  receive  a  shock  unless 
you  have  an  electric  affinity  for  that  which  shocks 
you.  Use  me,  then,  for  I  am  useful  in  my  way,  and 
stand  as  one  of  many  petitioners,  from  toadstool  and 
henbane  up  to  dahlia  and  violet,  supplicating  to  be  put 
to  my  use,  if  by  any  means  ye  may  find  me  service- 
able :  whether  for  a  medicated  drink  or  bath,  as  balm 
and  lavender ;  or  for  fragrance,  as  verbena  and  gera- 
nium ;  or  for  sight,  as  cactus :  or  for  thoughts,  as 
pansy. — These  humbler,  at  least,  if  not  those  higher 
uses. 

Ah  my  dear   Strangers  and  Enemies,  I  would   not 
forget  you.     I  can  well  afibrd  to  welcome  you.     Let 


WEDNESDA  V.  289 

me  subscribe  myself  Yours  ever  and  truly  —  your 
much  obliged  servant.  We  have  nothing  to  fear  from 
our  foes  ;  God  keeps  a  standing  army  for  that  service  ; 
but  we  have  no  ally  against  our  Friends,  those  ruth- 
less Vandals. 

Once  more  to  one  and  all, 

"  F'riends,  Romans,  Countrymen,  and  Lovers." 

Let  such  pure  hate  still  underprop 
Our  love,  that  we  may  be 
Each  other's  conscience, 
And  have  our  sympathy 
Mainly  from  thence. 

We  '11  one  another  treat  like  gods, 
And  all  the  faith  we  have 
In  virtue  and  in  truth,  bestow 
On  either,  and  suspicion  leave 
To  gods  below. 

Two  solitary  stars  — 
Unmeasured  systems  far 
Between  us  roll. 

But  by  our  conscious  light  we  are 
Determined  to  one  pole. 

What  need  confound  the  sphere  — 

Love  can  afford  to  wait, 

For  it  no  hour  's  too  late 

That  witnesseth  one  duty's  end. 

Or  to  another  doth  beginning  lend. 

It  will  subserve  no  use, 
More  than  the  tints  of  flowers, 
Only  the  independent  guest 
Frequents  its  bowers, 
Inherits  ils  bequest. 


290    .-/    WEEK   OX   THE    COXCOKD   RIVER, 

No  speech  though  kind  has  it, 
But  kinder  silence  doles 
Unto  its  mates, 
By  night  consoles, 
By  day  congratulates. 

What  saith  the  tongue  to  tongue? 
What  heareth  ear  of  ear? 
By  the  decrees  of  fate 
From  year  to  year. 
Does  it  communicate. 

Pathless  the  gulf  of  feeling  yawns  — 
No  trivial  bridge  of  words. 
Or  arch  of  boldest  span, 
Can  leap  the  moat  that  girds 
The  sincere  man. 

No  show  of  bolts  and  bars 
Can  keep  the  foeman  out, 
Or  'scape  his  secret  mine 
W^ho  entered  with  the  doubt 
That  drew  the  line. 

No  warder  at  the  gate 
Can  let  the  friendly  in, 
But,  like  the  sun,  o'er  all 
He  will  the  castle  win. 
And  shine  along  the  wall. 


There  's  nothing  in  the  world  I  know 
That  can  escape  from  love. 
For  every  depth  it  goes  below. 
And  every  height  above. 


It  waits  as  waits  the  sky. 
Until  the  clouds  go  by, 
Yet  shines  serenely  on 
With  an  eternal  day. 


WEDNESDAY.  29 1 

Alike  when  they  are  gone, 
And  when  they  stay. 

Implacable  is  Love, — 
Foes  may  be  bought  or  teazed 
From  their  hostile  intent, 
But  he  goes  unappeased 
Who  is  on  kindness  bent. 

Having  rowed  five  or  six  miles  above  Amoskeag 
before  sunset,  and  reached  a  pleasant  part  of  the  river, 
one  of  us  landed  to  look  for  a  farm-house,  where  we 
might  replenish  our  stores,  while  the  other  remained 
cruising  about  the  stream,  and  exploring  the  opposite 
shores  to  find  a  suitable  harbor  for  the  night.  In  the 
mean  while  the  canal  boats  began  to  come  round  a 
point  in  our  rear,  poling  their  way  along  close  to  the 
shore,  the  breeze  having  quite  died  away.  This  time 
there  was  no  offer  of  assistance,  but  one  of  the  boat- 
men only  called  out  to  say,  as  the  truest  revenge  for 
having  been  the  losers  in  the  race,  that  he  had  seen 
a  wood-duck,  which  we  had  scared  up,  sitting  on  a 
tall  white-pine,  half  a  mile  down  stream  ;  and  he  re- 
peated the  assertion  several  times,  and  seemed  really 
chagrined  at  the  apparent  suspicion  with  which  this 
information  was  received.  But  there  sat  the  summer 
duck  still  undisturbed  by  us. 

By  and  by  the  other  voyageur  returned  from  his 
inland  expedition,  bringing  one  of  the  natives  with 
him,  a  little  flaxen-headed  boy,  with  some  tradition, 
or  small  edition,  of  Robinson  Crusoe  in  his  head,  who 
had  been  charmed  by  the  account  of  our  adventures, 
and  asked  his  father's  leave  to  join  us.  He  exam- 
ined, at  first  from  the  top  of  the  bank,  our  boat  and 
furniture,  with  sparkling  eyes,  and  wished  himself 
alreadv  his  own  man.     He  was  a  livelv  and  interest- 


292    A    IVEEK   O.V   THE    CONCORD  RIVER. 

ing  boy,  and  we  should  have  been  glad  to  ship  him  : 
but  Nathan  was  still  his  father's  boy.  and  had  not 
come  to  years  of  discretion. 

We  had  got  a  loaf  of  home-made  bread,  and  musk 
and  water-melons  for  dessert.  For  this  farmer,  a 
clever  and  well-disposed  man.  cultivated  a  large  patch 
of  melons  for  the  Hooksett  and  Concord  markets. 
He  hospitably  entertained  us  the  next  day.  exhibiting 
his  hop-fields  and  kiln  and  melon  patch,  warning  us 
to  step  over  the  tight  rope  which  surrounded  the  lat- 
ter at  a  foot  from  the  ground,  while  he  pointed  to  a 
little  bower  at  the  corner,  where  it  connected  with  the 
lock  of  a  gun  ranging  with  the  line,  and  where,  as  he 
informed  us,  he  sometimes  sat  in  pleasant  nights  to 
defend  his  premises  against  thieves.  We  stepped 
high  over  the  Hne,  and  sympathized  with  our  host's 
on  the  whole  quite  human,  if  not  humane,  interest 
in  the  success  of  his  experiment.  That  night  espe- 
cially thieves  were  to  be  expected,  from  rumors  in  the 
atmosphere,  and  the  priming  was  not  wet.  He  was 
a  Methodist  man,  who  had  his  dwelling  between  the 
river  and  Uncannunuc  Mountain  ;  who  there  belonged, 
and  stayed  at  home  there,  and  by  the  encouragement 
of  distant  political  organizations,  and  by  his  own 
tenacity,  held  a  property  in  his  melons,  and  contin- 
ued to  plant.  We  suggested  melon  seeds  of  new 
varieties  and  fruit  of  foreign  flavor  to  be  added  to 
his  stock.  We  had  come  away  up  here  among  the 
hills  to  learn  the  impartial  and  unbribable  beneficence 
of  Nature.  Strawberries  and  melons  grow  as  well  in 
one  man's  garden  as  another's,  and  the  sun  lodges 
as  kindly  under  his  hill-side,  —  when  we  had  imag- 
ined that  she  inclined  rather  to  some  few  earnest  and 
faithful  souls  whom  we  know. 


WEDNESDA  Y.  293 

We  found  a  convenient  harbor  for  our  boat  on  the 
opposite  or  east  shore,  still  in  Hooksett,  at  the  mouth 
of  a  small  brook  which  emptied  into  the  Merrimack, 
where  it  would  be  out  of  the  w-ay  of  any  passing  boat 
in  the  night,  —  for  they  commonly  hug  the  shore  if 
bound  up  stream,  either  to  avoid  the  current,  or  touch 
the  bottom  with  their  poles,  —  and  where  it  would  be 
accessible  without  stepping  on  the  clayey  shore.  We 
set  one  of  our  largest  melons  to  cool  in  the  still  water 
among  the  alders  at  the  mouth  of  this  creek,  but  when 
our  tent  was  pitched  and  ready,  and  we  went  to  get 
it.  it  had  floated  out  into  the  stream  and  was  nowhere 
to  be  seen.  So  taking  the  boat  in  the  twilight,  we 
went  in  pursuit  of  this  property,  and  at  length,  after 
long  straining  of  the  eyes,  its  green  disk  w^as  discov- 
ered far  down  the  river,  gently  floating  seaward  with 
many  twigs  and  leaves  from  the  mountains  that  even- 
ing, and  so  perfectly  balanced  that  it  had  not  keeled 
at  all,  and  no  water  had  run  in  at  the  tap  which  had 
been  taken  out  to  hasten  its  cooling. 

As  we  sat  on  the  bank  eating  our  supper,  the  clear 
light  of  the  western  sky  fell  on  the  eastern  trees  and 
was  reflected  in  the  water,  and  we  enjoyed  so  serene 
an  evening  as  left  nothing  to  describe.  For  the 
most  part  we  think  that  there  are  few  degrees  of  sub- 
limity, and  that  the  highest  is  but  little  higher  than 
that  which  we  now  behold ;  but  we  are  always  de- 
ceived. Sublimer  visions  appear,  and  the  former  pale 
and  fade  away.  We  are  grateful  when  we  are  re- 
minded by  interior  evidence,  of  the  permanence  of 
universal  laws ;  for  our  faith  is  but  faintly  remem- 
bered, indeed,  is  not  a  remembered  assurance,  but 
a  use  and  enjoyment  of  knowledge.  It  is  when  we 
do  not  have  to  believe,  but  come  into  actual  contact 


294    ^    ^EEK   ON   THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

with  Truth,  and  are  related  to  her  in  the  most  direct 
and  intimate  way.  Waves  of  serener  life  pass  over 
us  from  time  to  time,  like  flakes  of  sunlight  over  the 
fields  in  cloudy  weather.  In  some  happier  moment, 
when  more  sap  flows  in  the  withered  stalk  of  our 
life,  Syria  and  India  stretch  away  from  our  present 
as  they  do  in  history.  All  the  events  which  make 
the  annals  of  the  nations  are  but  the  shadows  of  our 
private  experiences.  Suddenly  and  silently  the  eras 
which  we  call  history  awake  and  glimmer  in  us,  and 
there  is  room  for  Alexander  and  Hannibal  to  march 
and  conquer.  In  other  words,  the  history  which  we 
read  is  only  a  fainter  memory  of  events  which  have 
happened  in  our  own  experience.  Tradition  is  a 
more  interrupted  and  feebler  memory. 

This  world  is  but  canvass  to  our  imaginations.  I 
see  men  with  infinite  pains  endeavoring  to  realize 
to  their  bodies,  what  I,  with  at  least  equal  pains, 
would  realize  to  my  imagination,  —  its  capacities ; 
for  certainly  there  is  a  life  of  the  mind  above  the 
wants  of  the  body  and  independent  of  it.  Often 
the  body  is  warmed,  but  the  imagination  is  torpid ; 
the  body  is  fat,  but  the  imagination  is  lean  and 
shrunk.  But  what  avails  all  other  wealth  if  this  is 
wanting  ?  ••  Imagination  is  the  air  of  mind,"'  in 
which  it  lives  and  breathes.  All  things  are  as  I  am. 
Where  is  the  House  of  Change  ?  The  past  is  only 
so  heroic  as  we  see  it.  It  is  the  canvass  on  which 
our  idea  of  heroism  is  painted,  and  so,  in  one  sense, 
the  dim  prospectus  of  our  future  field.  Our  circum- 
stances answer  to  our  expectations  and  the  demand 
of  our  natures.  I  have  noticed  that  if  a  man  thinks 
that  he  needs  a  thousand  dollars,  and  cannot  be 
convinced  that  he  does  not,    he    will    commonly   be 


WEDNESDA  Y.  295 

found  to  have  them,  if  he  lives  and  thinks  a  thou- 
sand dollars  will  be  forthcoming,  though  it  be  to 
buy  shoe  strings  with.  A  thousand  mills  will  be 
just  as  slow  to  come  to  one  who  finds  it  equally 
hard  to  convince  himself  that  he  needs  t/tem. 

Men  are  by  birth  equal  in  this,  that  given 
Themselves  and  their  condition,  they  are  even. 

I  am  astonished  at  the  singular  pertinacity  and 
endurance  of  our  lives.  The  miracle  is,  that  what  is 
IS,  when  it  is  so  difficult,  if  not  impossible,  for  any- 
thing else  to  be ;  that  we  walk  on  in  our  particular 
paths  so  far,  before  we  fall  on  death  and  fate, 
merely  because  we  must  walk  in  some  path ;  that 
every  man  can  get  a  living,  and  so  few  can  do  any 
more.  So  much  only  can  I  accomphsh  ere  health 
and  strength  are  gone,  and  yet  this  suffices.  The 
bird  now  sits  just  out  of  gunshot.  I  am  never  rich 
in  money,  and  I  am  never  meanly  poor.  If  debts 
are  incurred,  why,  debts  are  in  the  course  of  events 
cancelled,  as  it  were  by  the  same  law  by  which 
they  were  incurred.  I  heard  that  an  engagement 
was  entered  into  between  a  certain  youth  and  a 
maiden,  and  then  I  heard  that  it  was  broken  off,  but 
I  did  not  know  the  reason  in  either  case.  We  are 
hedged  about,  we  think,  by  accident  and  circum- 
stance, now  we  creep  as  in  a  dream,  and  now  again 
we  run,  as  if  there  were  a  fate  in  it  and  all  things 
thwarted  or  assisted.  I  cannot  change  my  clothes 
but  when  I  do,  and  yet  I  do  change  them,  and  soil 
the  new  ones.  It  is  wonderful  that  this  gets  done, 
when  some  admirable  deeds  which  I  could  men- 
tion, do  not  get  done.  Our  particular  lives  seem 
of  such  fortune  and  confident  strength  and  durability 


296    A    WEEK   ON   THE   CONCORD   RIVER. 

as  piers  of  solid  rock  thrown  forward  into  the  tide 
of  circumstance.  When  every  other  path  would  fail, 
with  singular  and  unerring  confidence  we  advance 
on  our  particular  course.  What  risks  we  run  !  famine 
and  fire  and  pestilence,  and  the  thousand  forms  of 
a  cruel  fate,  —  and  yet  every  man  lives  till  he  — 
dies.  How  did  he  manage  that?  Is  there  no  im- 
mediate danger  ?  We  wonder  superfluously  when  we 
hear  of  a  somnambulist  walking  a  plank  securely, — 
we  have  walked  a  plank  all  our  lives  up  to  this  par- 
ticular string-piece  where  we  are.  My  life  will  wait 
for  nobody,  but  is  being  matured  still  without  delay, 
while  I  go  about  the  streets  and  chaffer  with  this 
man  and  that  to  secure  a  living.  It  is  as  indifferent 
and  easy  meanwhile  as  a  poor  man's  dog,  and  making 
acquaintance  with  its  kind.  It  will  cut  its  own 
channel  like  a  mountain  stream,  and  by  the  longest 
ridge  is  not  kept  from  the  sea  at  last.  I  have  found 
all  things  thus  far,  persons  and  inanimate  matter, 
elements  and  seasons,  strangely  adapted  to  my 
resources.  No  matter  what  imprudent  haste  in  my 
career ;  I  am  permitted  to  be  rash.  Gulfs  are  bridged 
in  a  twinkling,  as  if  some  unseen  baggage  train 
carried  pontoons  for  my  convenience,  and  while  from 
the  heights  I  scan  the  tempting  but  unexplored 
Pacific  Ocean  of  Futurity,  the  ship  is  being  carried 
over  the  mountains  piece-meal  on  the  backs  of 
mules  and  llamas,  whose  keel  shall  plow  its  waves 
and  bear  me  to  the  Indies.  Day  would  not  dawn 
if  it  \yere  not  for 

THE   INWARD   MORNING. 

Packed  in  my  mind  lie  all  the  clothes 
Which  outward  nature  wears, 


WEDNESDA  V.  297 

And  in  its  fashion's  hourly  change 
It  all  things  else  repairs. 

In  vain  I  look  for  change  abroad, 

And  can  no  difference  find, 
Till  some  new  ray  of  peace  uncalled 

Illumes  my  inmost  mind. 

What  is  it  gilds  the  trees  and  clouds, 

And  paints  the  heavens  so  gay, 
But  yonder  fast  abiding  light 

With  its  unchanging  ray  ? 

Lo,  when  the  sun  streams  through  the  wood, 

Upon  a  winter's  morn, 
Where'er  his  silent  beams  intrude 

The  murky  night  is  gone. 

How  could  the  patient  pine  have  known 

The  morning  breeze  would  come, 
Or  humble  flowers  anticipate 

The  insect's  noonday  hum, — 

Till  the  new  light  with  morning  cheer 

From  far  streamed  through  the  aisles, 
And  nimbly  told  the  forest  trees 

For  many  stretching  miles  ? 

I  *ve  heard  witliin  my  inmost  soul 

Such  cheerful  morning  news. 
In  the  horizon  of  my  mind 

Have  seen  such  orient  hues. 


As  in  the  twilight  of  the  dawn, 
When  the  first  birds  awake, 

Are  heard  within  some  silent  wood. 
Where  they  the  small  twigs  break. 


298    .-1    WEEK   ON   THE   COXCORD   RIVER. 


Or  in  the  eastern  skies  are  seen, 

Before  the  sun  appears, 
The  harbingers  of  summer  heats 

Which  from  afar  he  bears. 

Whole  weeks  and  months  of  my  summer  Hfe  slide 
away  in  thin  volumes  like  mist  and  smoke,  till  at 
length,  some  warm  morning,  perchance,  I  see  a 
sheet  of  mist  blown  down  the  brook  to  the  swamp, 
and  I  float  as  high  above  the  fields  with  it.  I  can 
recall  to  mind  the  stillest  summer  hours,  in  which 
the  grasshopper  sings  over  the  mulleins,  and  there 
is  a  valor  in  that  time  the  bare  memory  of  which 
is  armor  that  can  laugh  at  any  blow  of  fortune. 
For  our  lifetime  the  strains  of  a  harp  are  heard  to 
swell  and  die  alternately,  and  death  is  but  "  the 
pause  when  the  blast  is  recollecting  itself."' 

We  lay  awake  a  long  while,  listening  to  the  mur- 
murs of  the  brook,  in  the  angle  formed  by  whose 
bank  with  the  river  our  tent  was  pitched,  and  there 
was  a  sort  of  human  interest  in  its  story,  which  ceases 
not  in  freshet  or  in  drought  the  livelong  summer, 
and  the  profounder  lapse  of  the  river  was  quite 
drowned  by  its  din.     But  the  rill,  whose 

"  Silver  sands  and  pebbles  sing 
Eternal  ditties  with  the  spring," 

is  silenced  by  the  first  frosts  of  winter,  while  mightier 
streams,  on  whose  bottom  the  sun  never  shines, 
clogged  with  sunken  rocks  and  the  ruins  of  forests, 
from  whose  surface  comes  up  no  murmur,  are 
strangers  to  the  icy  fetters  which  bind  fast  a  thou- 
sand contributary  rills. 

I    dreamed    this    night    of    an    event    which    had 


WEDNESDA  Y.  299 

occurred  long  before.  It  was  a  difference  with  a 
Friend,  which  had  not  ceased  to  give  me  pain, 
though  I  had  no  cause  to  blame  myself.  But  in 
my  dream  ideal  justice  was  at  length  done  me  for 
his  suspicions,  and  I  received  that  compensation 
which  I  had  never  obtained  in  my  waking  hours. 
I  was  unspeakably  soothed  and  rejoiced,  even  after 
I  awoke,  because  in  dreams  we  never  deceive  our- 
selves, nor  are  deceived,  and  this  seemed  to  have 
the  authority  of  a  final  judgment. 

We  bless  and  curse  ourselves.  Some  dreams  are 
divine,  as  well  as  some  waking  thoughts.  Donne 
sings  of  one 

"  Who  dreamt  devoutlier  than  most  use  to  pray." 

Dreams  are  the  touchstones  of  our  characters.  We 
are  scarcely  less  afflicted  when  we  remember  some 
unworthiness  in  our  conduct  in  a  dream,  than  if  it 
had  been  actual,  and  the  intensity  of  our  grief,  which 
is  our  atonement,  measures  inversely  the  degree  by 
which  this  is  separated  from  an  actual  unworthiness. 
For  in  dreams  we  but  act  a  part  which  must  have 
been  learned  and  rehearsed  in  our  waking  hours, 
and  no  doubt  could  discover  some  waking  consent 
thereto.  If  this  meanness  has  not  its  foundation  in 
us,  why  are  we  grieved  at  it  ?  In  dreams  we  see  our- 
selves naked  and  acting  out  our  real  characters,  even 
more  clearly  than  we  see  others  awake.  But  an  un- 
wavering and  commanding  virtue  would  compel  even 
its  most  fantastic  and  faintest  dreams  to  respect  its 
over  wakeful  authority ;  as  we  are  accustomed  to  say 
carelessly,  we  should  never  have  dreamed  of  such  a 
thing.  Our  truest  life  is  when  we  are  in  dreams 
awake. 


300    A   WEEK   ON   THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

"And,  more  to  lull  him  in  his  slumber  soft, 
A  trickling  streame  from  high  rock  tumbling  downc, 
And  ever-drizzling  raine  upon  the  loft, 
Mixt  with  a  murmuring  winde,  much  like  the  sowne 
Of  swarming  bees,  did  cast  him  in  a  swowne. 
No  other  noyse,  nor  people's  troublous  cryes. 
As  still  are  wont  t'  annoy  the  walled  towne, 
Might  there  be  heard  ;  but  careless  Quiet  lyes 
Wrapt  in  eternall  silence  farre  from  enemyes." 


THURSDAY 

"  He  trode  the  unplanted  forest  floor,  whereon 
The  all-seeing  sun  for  ages  hath  not  shone, 
Where  feeds  the  moose,  and  walks  the  surly  bear, 
And  up  the  tall  mast  runs  the  woodpecker, 

***** 
Where  darkness  found  him  he  lay  glad  at  night ; 
There  the  red  morning  touched  him  with  its  light. 

***** 
Go  where  he  will,  the  wise  man  is  at  home, 
His  hearth  the  earth,  —  his  hall  the  azure  dome  ; 
Where  his  clear  spirit  leads  him,  there's  his  road, 
By  God's  own  light  illumined  and  foreshowed." 

Emerson, 

When  we  awoke  this  morning,  we  heard  the  faint 
dehberate  and  ominous  sound  of  rain  drops  on  our 
cotton  roof.  The  rain  had  pattered  all  night,  and 
now  the  whole  country  wept,  the  drops  falling  in  the 
river,  and  on  the  alders,  and  in  the  pastures,  and  in- 
stead of  any  bow  in  the  heavens,  there  was  the  trill 
of  the  tree-sparrow  all  the  morning.  The  cheery  faith 
of  this  little  bird  atoned  for  the  silence  of  the  whole 
woodland  quire  beside.  When  we  first  stepped  abroad, 
a  flock  of  sheep,  led  by  their  rams,  came  rushing  down 
a  ravine  in  our  rear,  with  heedless  haste  and  unre- 
served frisking,  as  if  unobserved  by  man,  from  some 
higher  pasture  where  they  had  spent  the  night,  to 
taste  the  herbage  by  the  river-side ;  but  when  their 
leaders  caught  sight  of  our  white  tent  through  the 
mist,  struck  with  sudden  astonishment,  with  their 
30 1 


302    A    WEEK   OX    THE   CONCORD   RTVER. 

fore  feet  braced,  they  sustained  the  rushing  torrent 
in  their  rear,  and  the  whole  flock  stood  still,  endeavor- 
ing to  solve  the  mystery  in  their  sheepish  brains.  At 
length,  concluding  that  it  boded  no  mischief  to  them, 
they  spread  themselves  out  quietly  over  the  field.  We 
learned  afterward  that  we  had  pitched  our  tent  on  the 
very  spot  which  a  few  summers  before  had  been  occu- 
pied by  a  party  of  Penobscots.  We  could  see  rising 
before  us  through  the  mist  a  dark  conical  eminence 
called  Hooksett  Pinnacle,  a  landmark  to  boatmen,  and 
also  Uncannunuc  Mountain,  broad  off  on  the  west 
side  of  the  river. 

This  was  the  limit  of  our  voyage,  for  a  few  hours 
more  in  the  rain  would  have  taken  us  to  the  last  of 
the  locks,  and  our  boat  was  too  heavy  to  be  dragged 
around  the  long  and  numerous  rapids  which  would 
occur.  On  foot,  however,  we  continued  up  along  the 
bank,  feeling  our  way  with  a  stick  through  the  show- 
ery and  foggy  day,  and  climbing  over  the  slippery 
logs  in  our  path  with  as  much  pleasure  and  buoyancy 
as  in  brightest  sunshine ;  scenting  the  fragrance  of 
the  pines  and  the  wet  clay  under  our  feet,  and  cheered 
by  the  tones  of  invisible  waterfalls ;  with  visions  of 
toadstools,  and  wandering  frogs,  and  festoons  of  moss 
hanging  from  the  spruce  trees,  and  thrushes  flitting 
silent  under  the  leaves  ;  our  road  still  holding  together 
through  that  wettest  of  weather,  like  faith,  while  we 
confidently  followed  its  lead.  We  managed  to  keep 
our  thoughts  dry,  however,  and  only  our  clothes  were 
wet.  It  was  altogether  a  cloudy  and  drizzling  day, 
with  occasional  brightenings  in  the  mist,  when  the 
trill  of  the  tree-sparrow  seemed  to  be  ushering  in 
sunny  hours. 

••  Nothing  that  naturally  happens  to  man,  can  ////;/ 


THURSDA  Y.  303 

him,  earthquakes  and  thunder  storms  not  excepted," 
said  a  man  of  genius,  who  at  this  time  lived  a  few 
miles  further  on  our  road.  When  compelled  by  a 
shower  to  take  shelter  under  a  tree,  we  may  improve 
that  opportunity  for  a  more  minute  inspection  of  some 
of  Nature's  works.  I  have  stood  under  a  tree  in  the 
woods  half  a  day  at  a  time,  during  a  heavy  rain  in  the 
summer,  and  yet  employed  myself  happily  and  profit- 
ably there  prying  with  miscroscopic  eye  into  the  crev- 
ices of  the  bark  or  the  leaves  or  the  fungi  at  my  feet. 
'*  Riches  are  the  attendants  of  the  miser ;  and  the 
heavens  rain  plenteously  upon  the  mountains.""  I  can 
fancy  that  it  would  be  a  luxury  to  stand  up  to  one's  chin 
in  some  retired  swamp  a  whole  summer  day,  scenting 
the  wild  honeysuckle  and  bilberry  blows,  and  lulled 
by  the  minstrelsy  of  gnats  and  mosquitoes  !  A  day 
passed  in  the  society  of  those  Greek  sages,  such  as 
described  in  the  Banquet  of  Xenophon,  would  not  be 
comparable  with  the  ary  wit  of  decayed  cranberry 
vines,  and  the  fresh  Attic  salt  of  the  moss-beds.  Say 
twelve  hours  of  genial  and  familiar  converse  with  the 
leopard  frog ;  the  sun  to  rise  behind  alder  and  dog- 
wood, and  climb  buoyantly  to  his  meridian  of  two 
hands'  breadth,  and  finally  sink  to  rest  behind  some 
bold  western  hummock.  To  hear  the  evening  chant 
of  the  mosquito  from  a  thousand  green  chapels,  and 
the  bittern  begin  to  boom  from  some  concealed  fort 
like  a  sunset  gun  !  —  Surely  one  may  as  profitably 
be  soaked  in  the  juices  of  a  swamp  for  one  day  as 
pick  his  way  dry-shod  over  sand.  Cold  and  damp. 
—  are  they  not  as  rich  experience  as  warmth  and 
dryness  ? 

At   present,  the    drops    come    trickling   down    the 
stubble  while  we  lie  drenched  on  a  bed  of  withered 


304    --/    WEEK   ON   THE    CON  CORD   RIVER. 

wild  oats,  by  the  side  of  a  bushy  hill,  and  the  gather- 
ing in  of  the  clouds,  with  the  last  rush  and  dying 
breath  of  the  wind,  and  then  the  regular  dripping  of 
twigs  and  leaves  the  country  over,  enhance  the  sense 
of  inward  comfort  and  sociableness.  The  birds  draw 
closer  and  are  more  familiar  under  the  thick  foliage, 
seemingly  composing  new  strains  upon  their  roosts 
against  the  sunshine.  What  were  the  amusements 
of  the  drawing  room  and  the  library  in  comparison, 
if  we  had  them  here?  We  should  still  sing  as  of 
old,— 

My  books  I  'd  fain  cast  off,  I  cannot  read, 
'Twixt  ever>'  page  my  thoughts  go  stray  at  large 
Down  in  the  meadow,  where  is  richer  feed, 
And  will  not  mind  to  hit  their  proper  targe. 

Plutarch  was  good,  and  so  was  Homer  too. 
Our  Shakspeare's  life  was  rich  to  live  again. 
What  Plutarch  read,  that  was  not  good  nor  true, 
Nor  Shakspeare's  books,  unless  his  books  were  men. 

Here  while  I  lie  beneath  this  walnut  bough, 
What  care  I  for  the  Greeks  or  for  Troy  town, 
If  juster  battles  are  enacted  now 
Between  the  ants  upon  this  hummock's  crown? 

Bid  Homer  wait  till  I  the  issue  learn, 
If  red  or  black  the  gods  will  favor  most, 
Or  yonder  Ajax  will  the  phalanx  turn. 
Struggling  to  heave  some  rock  against  the  host. 

Tell  Shakspeare  to  attend  some  leisure  hour. 
For  now  I  've  business  with  this  drop  of  dew, 
And  see  you  not,  the  clouds  prepare  a  shower,  — 
I  '11  meet  him  shortly  when  the  sky  is  blue. 

This  bed  of  herd's-grass  and  wild  oats  was  spread 
Last  year  with  nicer  skill  than  monarchs  use, 
A  clover  tuft  is  pillow  for  my  head, 
.\nd  violets  quite  overtop  my  shoes. 


THURSDA  V.  305 

And  now  the  cordial  clouds  have  shut  all  in, 
And  gently  swells  the  wind  to  say  all 's  well, 
The  scattered  drops  are  falling  fast  and  thin, 
Some  in  the  pool,  some  in  the  flower-bell. 

I  am  well  drenched  upon  my  bed  of  oats ; 
But  see  that  globe  come  rolling  down  its  stem. 
Now  like  a  lonely  planet  there  it  floats, 
And  now  it  sinks  into  my  garment's  hem. 

Drip,  drip  the  trees  for  all  the  country  round, 
And  richness  rare  distils  from  every  bough, 
The  wind  alone  it  is  makes  every  sound, 
Shaking  down  crystals  on  the  leaves  below. 

For  shame  the  sun  will  never  show  himself. 
Who  could  not  with  his  beams  e'er  melt  me  so, 
My  dripping  locks  —  they  would  become  an  elf, 
Who  in  a  beaded  coat  does  gaily  go. 

The  Pinnacle  is  a  small  wooded  hill  which  rises 
very  abruptly  to  the  height  of  about  two  hundred  feet, 
near  the  shore  at  Hooksett  Falls.  As  Uncannunuc 
Mountain  is  perhaps  the  best  point  from  which  to  view 
the  valley  of  the  Merrimack,  so  this  hill  affords  the 
best  view  of  the  river  itself.  I  have  sat  upon  its  sum- 
mit, a  precipitous  rock  only  a  few  rods  long,  in  fairer 
weather,  when  the  sun  was  setting  and  filling  the  river 
valley  with  a  flood  of  light.  You  can  see  up  and  down 
the  Merrimack  several  miles  each  way.  The  broad  and 
straight  river,  full  of  light  and  life,  with  its  sparkling 
and  foaming  falls,  the  islet  which  divides  the  stream, 
the  village  of  Hooksett  on  the  shore  almost  directly 
under  your  feet,  so  near  that  you  can  converse  with 
its  inhabitants  or  throw  a  stone  into  its  yards,  the 
woodland  lake  at  its  western  base,  and  the  mountains 
in  the   north   and   north-east,  make  a  scene  of  rare 


306    A    WEEK  ON   THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

beauty  and  completeness,  which  the  traveller  should 
take  pains  to  behold. 

We  were  hospitably  entertained  in  Concord  in  New 
Hampshire,  which  we  persisted  in  calling  N'ew  Con- 
cord, as  we  had  been  wont,  to  distinguish  it  from  our 
native  town,  from  which  we  had  been  told  that  it  was 
named  and  in  part  originally  settled.  This  would  have 
been  the  proper  place  to  conclude  our  voyage,  uniting 
Concord  with  Concord  by  these  meandering  rivers, 
but  our  boat  was  moored  some  miles  below  its  port. 

The  richness  of  tlie  intervals  at  Penacook,  now 
Concord  in  New  Hampshire,  had  been  observed  by 
explorers,  and.  according  to  the  historian  of  Haver- 
hill, in  the  "year  1726,  considerable  progress  was 
made  in  the  settlement,  and  a  road  was  cut  through 
the  wilderness  from  Haverhill  to  Penacook.  In  the 
fall  of  1727,  the  first  family,  that  of  Capt.  Ebenezer 
Eastman,  moved  into  the  place.  His  team  was  driven 
by  Jacob  Shute.  who  was  by  birth  a  Frenchman,  and 
he  is  said  to  have  been  the  first  person  who  drove 
a  team  through  the  wilderness.  Soon  after,  says  tra- 
dition, one  Ayer,  a  lad  of  18,  drove  a  team  consisting 
of  ten  yoke  of  oxen  to  Penacook,  swam  the  river,  and 
plowed  a  portion  of  the  interval.  He  is  supposed  to 
have  been  the  first  person  who  plowed  land  in  that 
place.  After  he  had  completed  his  work,  he  started 
on  his  return  at  sunrise,  drowned  a  yoke  of  oxen 
while  recrossing  the  river,  and  arrived  at  Haverhill 
about  midnight.  The  crank  of  the  first  saw-mill  was 
manufactured  in  Haverhill,  and  carried  to  Penacook 
on  a  horse.*" 

But  we  found  that  the  frontiers  were  not  this  way 
any  longer.  This  generation  has  come  into  the  world 
fatally  late  for  some  enterprises.     Go  where  we  will 


77/rRSDA  Y.  307 

on  the  surface  of  things,  men  have  been  there  before 
us.  We  cannot  now  have  the  pleasure  of  erecting 
the  last  house  ;  that  was  long  ago  set  up  in  the  suburbs 
of  Astoria  city,  and  our  boundaries  have  literally  been 
run  to  the  South  Sea,  according  to  the  old  patents. 
But  the  lives  of  men,  though  more  extended  laterally 
in  their  range,  are  still  as  shallow  as  ever.  Undoubt- 
edly, as  a  western  orator  said,  "  men  generally  live 
over  about  the  same  surface ;  some  live  long  and 
narrow,  and  others  live  broad  and  short ; ''  but  it  is  all 
superficial  living.  A  worm  is  as  good  a  traveller  as  a 
grasshopper  or  a  cricket,  and  a  much  wiser  settler. 
With  all  their  activity  these  do  not  hop  away  from 
drought  nor  forward  to  summer.  We  do  not  avoid 
evil  by  fleeing  before  it,  but  by  rising  above  or  diving 
below  its  plane ;  as  the  worm  escapes  drought  and 
frost  by  boring  a  few  inches  deeper.  The  frontiers 
are  not  east  or  west,  north  or  south,  but  wherever  a 
\xva.n  fronts  a  fact,  though  that  fact  be  his  neighbor, 
there  is  an  unsettled  wilderness  between  him  and 
Canada,  between  him  and  the  setting  sun,  or,  further 
still,  between  him  and  //.  Let  him  build  himself  a 
log-house  with  the  bark  on  where  he  is,  fronting- 
IT,  and  wage  there  an  Old  French  war  for  seven 
or  seventy  years,  with  Indians  and  Rangers,  or  what- 
ever else  may  come  between  him  and  the  reality,  and 
save  his  scalp  if  he  can. 

We  now  no  longer  sailed  or  floated  on  the  river,  but 
trod  the  unyielding  land  like  pilgrims.  Sadi  tells 
who  may  travel ;  among  others,  —  "A  common  me- 
chanic, who  can  earn  a  subsistence  by  the  industry  of 
his  hand,  and  shall  not  have  to  stake  his  reputation 
for  every  morsel  of  ])read.  as  philosophers  have  said." 


308    J    WEEK   OX   THE    COXCORD   RIVER. 

—  He  may  travel  who  can  subsist  on  the  wild  fruits 
and  game  of  the  most  cultivated  country.  A  man 
may  travel  fast  enough  and  earn  his  living  on  the 
road.  I  have  frequently  been  applied  to  to  do  work 
when  on  a  journey  :  to  do  tinkering  and  repair  clocks, 
when  I  had  a  knapsack  on  my  back.  A  man  once 
applied  to  me  to  go  into  a  factory,  stating  conditions 
and  wages,  observing  that  I  succeeded  in  shutting  the 
window  of  a  railroad  car  in  which  we  were  travelling, 
when  the  other  passengers  had  failed.  '■'  Hast  thou 
not  heard  of  a  Sufi,  who  was  hammering  some  nails 
into  the  sole  of  his  vandal ;  an  officer  of  cavalry  took 
him  by  the  sleeve,  saying,  come  along  and  shoe  my 
horse.''"  Farmers  have  asked  me  to  assist  them  in 
haying,  when  I  was  passing  their  fields.  A  man  once 
applied  to  me  to  mend  his  umbrella,  taking  me  for  an 
umbrella  mender,  because,  being  on  a  journey,  I  car- 
ried an  umbrella  in  my  hand  while  the  sun  shone. 
Another  wished  to  buy  a  tin  cup  of  me,  observing 
that  I  had  one  strapped  to  my  belt,  and  a  sauce-pan 
on  my  back.  Tlie  cheapest  way  to  travel,  and  the 
way  to  travel  the  furthest  in  the  shortest  distance,  is  to 
go  afoot,  carrying  a  dipper,  a  spoon,  and  a  fish-line, 
some  Indian  meal,  some  salt,  and  some  sugar.  When 
you  come  to  a  brook  or  pond,  you  can  catch  fish  and 
cook  them  ;  or  you  can  boil  a  hasty-pudding  ;  or  you 
can  buy  a  loaf  of  bread  at  a  farmer's  house  for  four- 
pence,  moisten  it  in  the  next  brook  that  crosses  the 
road,  and  dip  into  it  your  sugar,  —  this  alone  will  last 
you  a  whole  day  ;  —  or,  if  you  are  accustomed  to 
heartier  living,  you  can  buy  a  quart  of  milk  for  two 
cents,  crumb  your  bread  or  cold  pudding  into  it,  and 
eat  it  with  your  own  spoon  out  of  your  own  dish.  Any 
one  of  these  things  I  mean,  not  all  together.     I  have 


THURSDA  V.  309 

travelled  thus  some  hundreds  of  miles  without  taking 
any  meal  in  a  house,  sleeping  on  the  ground  when 
convenient,  and  found  it  cheaper,  and  in  many  re- 
spects more  profitable,  than  staying  at  home.  So 
that  some  have  inquired  why  it  would  not  be  best  to 
travel  always.  But  I  never  thought  of  travelling 
simply  as  a  means  of  getting  a  livelihood.  A  simple 
woman  down  in  Tyngsboro\  at  whose  house  I  once 
stopped  to  get  a  draught  of  water,  when  I  said,  recog- 
nizing the  bucket,  that  I  had  stopped  there  nine  years 
before  for  the  same  purpose,  asked  if  I  was  not  a 
traveller,  supposing  that  I  had  been  travelling  ever 
since,  and  had  now  come  round  again,  that  travelling 
was  one  of  the  professions,  more  or  less  productive, 
which  her  husband  did  not  follow.  But  continued 
travelling  is  far  from  productive.  It  begins  with 
wearing  away  the  soles  of  the  shoes,  and  making  the 
feet  sore,  and  ere  long  it  wdll  wear  a  man  clean  up, 
after  making  his  heart  sore  into  the  bargain.  I  have 
observed  that  the  after-life  of  those  who  have  travelled 
much  is  very  pathetic.  True  and  sincere  travelling 
is  no  pastime,  but  it  is  as  serious  as  the  grave,  or  any 
other  part  of  the  human  journey,  and  it  requires  a  long 
probation  to  be  broken  into  it.  I  do  not  speak  of 
those  that  travel  sitting,  the  sedentary  travellers  whose 
legs  hang  dangling  the  while,  mere  idle  symbols  of  the 
fact,  any  more  than  when  we  speak  of  sitting  hens 
we  mean  those  that  sit  standing,  but  I  mean  those  to 
whom  travelling  is  life  for  the  legs.  The  traveller 
must  be  born  again  on  the  road,  and  earn  a  passport 
from  the  elements,  the  principal  powers  that  be  for 
him.  He  shall  experience  at  last  that  old  threat  of 
his  mother  fulfilled,  that  he  shall  be  skinned  alive. 
His  sores  shall  gradually  deepen  themselves  that  they 


310    -^    WEEK    OX    THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

may  heal  inwardly,  while  he  gives  no  rest  to  the  sole 
of  his  foot,  and  at  night  weariness  must  be  his  pillow, 
that  so  he  may  acquire  experience  against  his  rainy 
days.  —  So  was  it  with  us. 

Sometimes  we  lodged  at  an  inn  in  the  woods,  where 
trout-fishers  from  distant  cities  had  arrived  before  us, 
and  where,  to  our  astonishment,  the  settlers  dropped 
in  at  night-fall  to  have  a  chat  and  hear  the  news, 
though  there  was  but  one  road,  and  no  other  house 
was  visible,  —  as  if  they  had  come  out  of  the  earth . 
There  we  sometimes  read  old  newspapers,  who  never 
before  read  new  ones,  and  in  the  rustle  of  their  leaves 
heard  the  dashing  of  the  surf  along  the  Atlantic  shore, 
instead  of  the  sough  of  the  wind  among  the  pines. 
But  then  walking  had  given  us  an  appetite  even  for 
the  least  palatable  and  nutritious  food. 

Some  hard  and  dry  book  in  a  dead  language,  which 
you  have  found  it  impossible  to  read  at  home,  but 
for  which  you  have  still  a  lingering  regard,  is  the 
best  to  carry  with  you  on  a  journey.  At  a  country 
inn,  in  the  barren  society  of  ostlers  and  travellers,  I 
could  undertake  the  writers  of  the  silver  or  the  brazen 
age  with  confidence.  Almost  the  last  regular  service 
which  I  performed  in  the  cause  of  literature  was  to 
read  the  works  of 

AULUS    PERSIUS   FLACCUS. 

If  you  have  imagined  what  a  divine  work  is  spread 
out  for  the  poet,  and  approach  this  author  too,  in  the 
hope  of  finding  the  field  at  length  fairly  entered  on. 
you  will  hardly  dissent  from  the  words  of  the  prologue, 

"  Ipse  semipaganus 
Ad  sacra  Vatum  carmen  affero  nostrum." 


THURSDAY.  311 

I  half  pagan 
Bring  my  verses  to  the  shrine  of  the  poets. 

Here  is  none  of  the  interior  dignity  of  Virgil,  nor 
the  elegance  and  vivacity  of  Horace,  nor  will  any 
sybil  be  needed  to  remind  you,  that  from  those  older 
Greek  poets  there  is  a  sad  descent  to  Persius.  You 
can  scarcely  distinguish  one  harmonious  sound  amid 
this  unmusical  bickering  with  the  follies  of  men. 

One  sees  that  music  has  its  place  in  thought,  but 
hardly  as  yet  in  language.  When  the  Muse  arrives, 
we  wait  for  her  to  remould  language,  and  impart  to  it 
her  own  rhythm.  Hitherto  the  verse  groans  and 
labors  with  its  load,  and  goes  not  forward  blithely, 
singing  by  the  way.  The  best  ode  may  be  parodied, 
indeed  is  itself  a  parody,  and  has  a  poor  and  trivial 
sound,  like  a  man  stepping  on  the  rounds  of  a  ladder. 
Homer,  and  Shakspeare,  and  Milton,  and  Marvel,  and 
Wordsworth,  are  but  the  rustling  of  leaves  and  crac- 
kling of  twigs  in  the  forest,  and  there  is  not  yet  the 
.sound  of  any  bird.  The  Muse  has  never  lifted  up 
her  voice  to  sing.  Most  of  all,  satire  will  not  be 
sung.  A  Juvenal  or  Persius  do  not  marry  music  to 
their  verse,  but  are  measured  fault-finders  at  best ; 
stand  but  just  outside  the  faults  they  condemn,  and 
so  are  concerned  rather  about  the  monster  which 
they  have  escaped,  than  the  fair  prospect  before 
them.  Let  them  live  on  an  age,  and  they  will  have 
travelled  out  of  his  shadow  and  reach,  and  found  other 
objects  to  ponder. 

As  long  as  there  is  satire,  the  poet  is,  as  it  were, 
Particeps  criminis.  One  sees  not  but  he  had  best  let 
bad  take  care  of  itself,  and  have  to  do  only  with  what 
is  beyond  suspicion.  If  you  light  on  the  least  vestige 
of  truth,  and  it  is  the  weight  of  the  whole  hodv  -^till 


312    A   WEEK   OX   THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

which  stamps  the  faintest  trace,  an  eternity  will  not 
suffice  to  extol  it.  while  no  evil  is  so  huge,  but  you 
grudge  to  bestow  on  it  a  moment  of  hate.  Truth 
never  turns  to  rebuke  falsehood  ;  her  own  straight- 
forwardness is  the  severest  correction.  Horace  would 
not  have  written  satire  so  well  if  he  had  not  been  in- 
spired by  it.  as  by  a  passion,  and  fondly  cherished  his 
vein.  In  his  odes,  the  love  always  exceeds  the  hate, 
so  that  the  severest  satire  still  sings  itself,  and  the 
poet  is  satisfied,  though  the  folly  be  not  corrected. 

A  sort  of  necessary  order  in  the  development  of 
Genius  is,  first,  Complaint :  second,  Plaint ;  third, 
Love.  Complaint,  which  is  the  condition  of  Persius. 
lies  not  in  the  province  of  poetry.  Ere  long  the  en- 
joyment of  a  superior  good  would  have  changed  his 
disgust  into  regret.  We  can  never  have  much  sym- 
pathy with  the  complainer :  for  after  searching  nature 
through,  we  conclude  that  he  must  be  both  plaintiff 
and  defendant  too.  and  so  had  best  come  to  a  settle- 
ment without  a  hearing.  He  who  receives  an  injury 
is  to  some  extent  an  accomplice  of  the  wrong  doer. 

Perhaps  it  would  be  truer  to  say,  that  the  highest 
strain  of  the  muse  is  essentially  plaintive.  The 
saint's  are  still  tears  of  joy.  Who  has  ever  heard 
the  Innocent  sing? 

But  the  divinest  poem,  or  the  life  of  a  great  man, 
is  the  severest  satire ;  as  impersonal  as  Nature  her- 
self, and  like  the  sighs  of  her  winds  in  the  woods, 
which  convey  ever  a  slight  reproof  to  the  hearer. 
The  greater  the  genius,  the  keener  the  edge  of  the 
satire. 

Hence  we  have  to  do  only  with  the  rare  and  frag- 
mentary traits,  which  least  belong  to  Persius,  or  shall 
we  say,   are   the  properest   utterances   of  his   muse; 


THURSDA  y.  313 

since  that  which  he  says  best  at  any  time  is  what  he 
can  best  say  at  all  times.  The  Spectators  and  Ram- 
blers have  not  failed  to  cull  some  quotable  sentences 
from  this  garden  too,  so  pleasant  is  it  to  meet  even 
the  most  familiar  truth  in  a  new  dress,  when,  if  our 
neighbor  had  said  it,  we  should  have  passed  it  by  as 
hackneyed.  Out  of  these  six  satires,  you  may  perhaps 
select  some  twenty  lines,  which  fit  so  well  as  many 
thoughts,  that  they  will  recur  to  the  scholar  almost 
as  readily  as  a  natural  image ;  though  when  trans- 
lated into  familiar  language,  they  lose  that  insular 
emphasis,  which  fitted  them  for  quotation.  Such 
lines  as  the  following,  translation  cannot  render  com- 
mon-place. Contrasting  the  man  of  true  religion  with 
those  who,  with  jealous  privacy,  would  fain  carry  on  a 
secret  commerce  with  the  gods,  he  says, — 

"  Haud  cuivis  promptum  est,  murmurque  humilesque  susurroSj, 
Tollere  de  templis;  et  aperto  vivere  voto." 

It  is  not  easy  for  every  one  to  take  murmurs  and  low 
Whispers  out  of  the  temples,  and  live  with  open  vow. 

To  the  virtuous  man,  the  universe  is  the  only  sa^ic- 
ticm  sanctorum^  and  the  penetralia  of  the  temple  are 
the  broad  noon  of  his  existence.  Why  should  he 
betake  himself  to  a  subterranean  crypt,  as  if  it  were 
the  only  holy  ground  in  all  the  world  which  he  had 
left  unprofaned  ?  '  The  obedient  soul  would  only  the 
more  discover  and  familiarize  things,  and  escape 
more  and  more  into  light  and  air,  as  having  hence- 
forth done  with  secrecy,  so  that  the  universe  shall 
not  seem  open  enough  for  it.  At  length,  it  is  neg- 
lectful even  of  that  silence  which  is  consistent  with 
true  modesty,  but  by  its   independence  of  all  confi- 


314    A    WEEK   ON   THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

dence  in  its  disclosures,  makes  that  which  it  imparts 
so  private  to  the  hearer,  that  it  becomes  the  care  of 
the  whole  world  that  modesty  be  not  infringed. 

To  the  man  who  cherishes  a  secret  in  his  breast, 
there  is  a  still  greater  secret  unexplored.  Our  most 
indifferent  acts  may  be  matter  for  secrecy,  but  what- 
ever we  do  with  the  utmost  truthfulness  and  integrity, 
by  virtue  of  its  pureness.  must  be  transparent  as 
light. 

In  the  third  satire,  he  asks, 

"  Est  aliquid  quo  tendis,  et  in  quod  dirigis  arcum? 
An  passim  sequeris  corvos,  testave,  lutove, 
Securus  quo  pes  ferat,  atque  ex  tempore  vivis?  " 

Is  there  anything  to  which  thou  tendest,  and  against  which 

thou  directest  thy  bow? 
Or  dost  thou  pursue  crows,  at  random,  with  pottery  or  clay, 
Careless  whither  thy  feet  bear  thee,  and  live<fAr  tempore  ? 

The  bad  sense  is  always  a  secondary  one.  Lan- 
guage does  not  appear  to  have  justice  done  it,  but  is 
obviously  cramped  and  narrowed  in  its  significance, 
when  any  meanness  is  described.  The  truest  con- 
struction is  not  put  upon  it.  What  may  readily  be 
fashioned  into  a  rule  of  wisdom,  is  here  thrown  in 
the  teeth  of  the  sluggard,  and  constitutes  the  front  of 
his  offence.  Universally,  the  innocent  man  will  come 
forth  from  the  sharpest  inquisition  and  lecturing, 
the  combined  din  of  reproof  and  commendation, 
with  a  faint  sound  of  eulogy  in  his  ears.  Our  vices 
always  lie  in  the  direction  of  our  virtues,  and  in 
their  best  estate  are  but  plausible  imitations  of  the 
latter.  Falsehood  never  attains  to  the  dignity  of 
entire  falseness,  but  is  onlv  an  inferior  sort  of  truth ; 


THURSDA  Y.  3  I  5 

if  it  were  more  thoroughly  false,  it  would  incur 
danger  of  becoming  true. 

"  Securus  quo  pes  ferat,  atque  ex  tempore  vivit," 

is  then  the  motto  of  a  wise  man.  For  first,  as  the 
subtle  discernment  of  the  language  would  have  taught 
us,  with  all  his  negligence  he  is  still  secure ;  but 
the  sluggard,  notwithstanding  his  heedlessness,  is 
insecure. 

The  life  of  a  wise  man  is  most  of  all  extemporane- 
ous, for  he  lives  out  of  an  eternity  which  includes  all 
time.  The  cunning  mind  travels  farther  back  than 
Zoroaster  each  instant,  and  comes  quite  down  to  the 
present  with  its  revelation.  The  utmost  thrift  and 
industry  of  thinking  give  no  man  any  stock  in  life  : 
his  credit  with  the  inner  world  is  no  better,  his 
capital  no  larger.  He  must  try  his  fortune  again  to- 
day as  yesterday.  All  questions  rely  on  the  present 
for  their  solution.  Time  measures  nothing  but  itself. 
The  word  that  is  written  may  be  postponed,  but  not 
that  on  the  lip.  If  this  is  what  the  occasion  says, 
let  the  occasion  say  it.  All  the  world  is  forward  to 
prompt  him  who  gets  up  to  live  without  his  creed  in 
his  pocket. 

In  the  fifth  satire,  which  is  the  best,  I  find. — 

"  Stat  contra  ratio,  et  secretam  garrit  in  aurem, 
Ne  liceat  facere  id,  quod  quis  vitiabit  agendo." 

Reason  opposes,  and  whispers  in  the  secret  ear, 

That  it  is  not  lawful  to  do  that  which  one  will  spoil  by  doing. 

Only  they  who  do  not  see  how  anything  might  be  better 
done,  are  forward  to  try  their  hand  on  it.  Even  the 
master  workman  must  be  encouraged  by  the  reflection. 


3l6    J    WEEK   OX   THE    COXCOKD   RIVER. 

that  his  awkwardness  will  be  incompetent  to  do  that 
thing  harm,  to  which  his  skill  may  fail  to  do  justice. 
Here  is  no  apology  for  neglecting  to  do  many  things 
from  a  sense  of  our  incapacity.  —  for  what  deed  does 
not  fall  maimed  and  imperfect  from  our  hands? — but 
only  a  warning  to  bungle  less. 

The  satires  of  Persius  are  the  farthest  possible 
from  inspired ;  evidently  a  chosen,  not  imposed  sub- 
ject. Perhaps  I  have  given  him  credit  for  more  ear- 
nestness than  is  apparent ;  but  it  is  certain,  that  that 
which  alone  we  can  call  Persius,  which  is  forever  in- 
dependent and  consistent,  was  in  earnest,  and  so 
sanctions  the  sober  consideration  of  all.  The  artist 
and  his  work  are  not  to  be  separated.  The  most  wil- 
fully foolish  man  cannot  stand  aloof  from  his  folly, 
but  the  deed  and  the  doer  together  make  ever  one 
sober  fact.  There  is  but  one  stage  for  the  peasant 
and  the  actor.  The  buffoon  cannot  bribe  you  to 
laugh  always  at  his  grimaces :  they  shall  sculpture 
themselves  in  Egyptian  granite,  to  stand  heavy  as  the 
pyramids  on  the  ground  of  his  character. 

Suns  rose  and  set  and  found  us  still  on  the  dank 
forest  path  which  meanders  up  the  Pemigewasset, 
now  more  like  an  otter's  or  a  marten's  trail,  or  where 
a  beaver  had  dragged  his  trap,  than  where  the  wheels 
of  travel  raise  a  dust;  where  towns  begin  to  serve  as 
gores,  only  to  hold  the  earth  together.  The  wild 
pigeon  sat  secure  above  our  heads,  high  on  the  dead 
limbs  of  naval  pines,  reduced  to  a  robin's  size.  The 
very  yards  of  our  hostelries  incHned  upon  the  skirts 
of  mountains,  and,  as  we  passed,  we  looked  up  at  a 
steep  angle  at  the  stems  of  maples  waving  in  the 
clouds. 


THURSDA  V.  317 

Far  up  in  the  country.  —  for  we  would  be  faithful 
to  our  experience,  —  in  Thornton,  perhaps,  we  met  a 
soldier  lad  in  the  woods,  going  to  muster  in  full  regi- 
mentals, and  holding  the  middle  of  the  road  ;  deep  in 
the  forest  with  shouldered  musket  and  military  step. 
and  thoughts  of  war  and  glory  all  to  himself.  It  was 
a  sore  trial  to  the  youth,  tougher  than  many  a  battle, 
to  get  by  us  creditably  and  with  soldierlike  bearing. 
Poor  man  !  He  actually  shivered  like  a  reed  in  his 
thin  military  pants,  and  by  the  time  we  had  got  up 
with  him,  all  the  sternness  that  becomes  the  soldier 
had  forsaken  his  face,  and  he  skulked  past  as  if  he 
were  driving  his  father's  sheep  under  a  sword-proof 
helmet.  It  was  too  much  for  him  to  carry  any  extra 
armor  then,  who  could  not  easily  dispose  of  his  nat- 
ural arms.  And  for  his  legs,  they  were  like  heavy 
artillery  in  boggy  places  ;  better  to  cut  the  traces  and 
forsake  them.  His  greaves  chafed  and  wrestled  one 
with  another  for  want  of  other  foes.  But  he  did  get 
by  and  get  oiT  with  all  his  munitions,  and  lived  to 
fight  another  day ;  and  I  do  not  record  this  as  cast- 
ing any  suspicion  on  his  honor  and  real  bravery  in 
the  field. 

Wandering  on  through  notches  which  the  streams 
had  made,  by  the  side  and  over  the  brows  of  hoar 
hills  and  mountains,  across  the  stumpy,  rocky,  for- 
ested and  bepastured  country,  we  at  length  crossed  on 
prostrate  trees  over  the  Amonoosuck,  and  breathed 
the  free  air  of  Unappropriated  Land.  Thus,  in  fair 
days  as  well  as  foul,  we  had  traced  up  the  river  to 
which  our  native  stream  is  a  tributary,  until  from 
Merrimack  it  became  the  Pemigewasset  that  leaped 
by  our  side,  and  when  we  had  passed  its  fountain- 
head,   the  Wild   Amonoosuck,   whose    puny  channel 


3l8      A    WEEK   ON   THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 


was  crossed  at  a  stride,  guiding  us  toward  its  distan. 
source  among  the  mountains,  and  at  length,  without 
its  guidance,  we  were  enabled  to  reach  the  summit  of 
Agiocochook. 


"  Sweet  days,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright, 
The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky, 
Sweet  dews  shall  weep  thy  fall  to-night. 
For  thou  must  die." 

Herbert. 


When  we  returned  to  Hooksett,  a  week  afterward, 
the  melon  man,  in  whose  corn-barn  we  had  hung  our 
tent  and  buffaloes  and  other  things  to  dry,  was  al- 
ready picking  his  hops,  with  many  women  and  chil- 
dren to  help  him.  We  bought  one  watermelon,  the 
largest  in  his  patch,  to  carry  with  us  for  ballast.  It 
was  Nathan's,  w^hich  he  might  sell  if  he  pleased,  hav- 
ing been  conveyed  to  him  in  the  green  state,  and 
owned  daily  by  his  eyes.  After  due  consultation 
with  "  Father."'  the  bargain  was  concluded,  —  we  to 
buy  it  at  a  venture  on  the  vine,  green  or  ripe,  our 
risk,  and  pay  ''what  the  gentlemen  pleased."  It 
proved  to  be  ripe ;  for  we  had  had  honest  experience 
in  selecting  this  fruit. 

Finding  our  boat  safe  in  its  harbor,  under  Uncan- 
nunuc  Mountain,  with  a  fair  wind  and  the  current  in 
our  favor,  we  commenced  our  return  voyage  at  noon, 
sitting  at  our  ease  and  conversing,  or  in  silence  watch- 
ing for  the  last  trace  of  each  reach  in  the  river  as  a 
bend  concealed  it  from  our  view.     As  the  season  was 


THURSDA  V.  319 

further  advanced,  the  wind  now  blew  steadily  from 
the  north,  and  with  our  sail  set  we  could  occasionally 
lie  on  our  oars  without  loss  of  time.  The  lumber- 
men throwing  down  wood  from  the  top  of  the  high 
bank,  thirty  or  forty  feet  above  the  water,  that  it 
might  be  sent  down  stream,  paused  in  their  work  to 
watch  our  retreating  sail.  By  this  time,  indeed,  we 
were  well  known  to  the  boatmen,  and  were  hailed  as 
the  Revenue  Cutter  of  the  stream.  As  we  sailed 
rapidly  down  the  river,  shut  in  between  two  mounds 
of  earth,  the  sound  of  this  timber  rolled  down  the 
bank  enhanced  the  silence  and  vastness  of  the  noon, 
and  we  fancied  that  only  the  primeval  echoes  were 
awakened.  The  vision  of  a  distant  scow  just  heaving 
in  sight  round  a  headland,  also  increased  by  contrast 
the  solitude. 

Through  the  din  and  desultoriness  of  noon,  even  in 
the  most  oriental  city,  is  seen  the  fresh  and  primitive 
and  savage  nature,  in  which  Scythians,  and  Ethiopians, 
and  Indians  dwell.  What  is  echo,  what  are  light  and 
shade,  day  and  night,  ocean  and  stars,  earthquake  and 
eclipse,  there?  The  works  of  man  are  every  where 
swallowed  up  in  the  immensity  of  Nature.  The 
yEgean  Sea  is  but  Lake  Huron  still  to  the  Indian. 
Also  there  is  all  the  refinement  of  civilized  life  in  the 
woods  under  a  sylvan  garb.  The  wildest  scenes  have 
an  air  of  domesticity  and  homeliness  even  to  the  citi- 
zen, and  when  the  flicker's  cackle  is  heard  in  the 
clearing,  he  is  reminded  that  civilization  has  wrought 
but  little  change  there.  Science  is  welcome  to  the 
deepest  recesses  of  the  forest,  for  there  too  nature 
obeys  the  same  old  civil  laws.  The  little  red  bug  on 
the  stump  of  a  pine,  for  it  the  wind  shifts  and  the  sun 
breaks   through  the  clouds-      In  the  wildest  nature, 


320      A    WEEK   OX   THE    COXCORD  RIVER. 

there  is  not  only  the  material  of  the  most  cultivated 
life,  and  a  sort  of  anticipation  of  the  last  result,  but  a 
greater  refinement  already  than  is  ever  attained  by 
man.  There  is  papyrus  by  the  river-side,  and  rushes 
for  light,  and  the  goose  only  flies  overhead,  ages  be- 
fore the  studious  are  born  or  letters  invented,  and 
that  literature  which  the  former  suggest,  and  even 
from  the  first  have  rudely  served,  it  may  be  man  does 
not  yet  use  them  to  express.  Nature  is  prepared  to 
welcome  into  her  scenery  the  finest  work  of  human 
art,  for  she  is  herself  an  art  so  cunning  that  the  artist 
never  appears  in  his  work. 

Art  is  not  tame,  and  Nature  is  not  wild,  in  the  or- 
dinary sense.  A  perfect  work  of  man's  art  would  also 
be  wild  or  natural  in  a  good  sense.  Man  tames  Na- 
ture only  that  he  may  at  last  make  her  more  free  even 
than  he  found  her,  though  he  may  never  yet  have 
succeeded. 

With  this  propitious  breeze,  and  the  help  of  our 
oars,  we  soon  reached  the  Falls  of  Amoskeag,  and 
the  mouth  of  the  Piscataquoag,  and  recognized,  as 
we  swept  rapidly  by,  many  a  fair  bank  and  islet  on 
which  our  eyes  had  rested  in  the  upward  passage. 
Our  boat  was  like  that  which  Chaucer  describes  in  his 
Dream,  in  which  the  knight  took  his  departure  from 
the  island, 

"  To  journey  for  his  marriage, 
And  return  with  such  an  host, 
That  wedded  might  be  least  and  most.  *  * 
Which  barge  was  as  a  man's  thought, 
After  his  pleasure  to  him  brought, 
The  queene  herself  accustomed  aye 
In  the  same  barge  to  play. 
It  needed  neither  mast  ne  rother, 


THURSDAY.  321 

I  have  not  heard  of  such  another, 

No  master  for  the  governance, 

Hie  sayled  by  thought  and  pleasaunce 

Without  labor  east  and  west, 

All  was  one,  calme  or  tempest." 

So  we  sailed  this  afternoon,  thinking  of  the  saying  of 
Pythagoras,  though  we  had  no  pecuHar  right  to  re- 
member it,  — "  It  is  beautiful  when  prosperity  is 
present  with  intellect,  and  when  sailing  as  it  were 
with  a  prosperous  wind,  actions  are  performed  look- 
ing to  virtue ;  just  as  a  pilot  looks  to  the  motions  of 
the  stars.*'  All  the  world  reposes  in  beauty  to  him 
who  preserves  equipoise  in  his  life,  and  moves  serenely 
on  his  path  without  secret  violence;  as  he  who  sails 
down  a  stream,  he  has  only  to  steer,  keeping  his  bark 
in  the  middle,  and  carry  it  round  the  falls.  The  rip- 
ples curled  away  in  our  wake,  like  ringlets  from  the 
head  of  a  child,  while  we  steadily  held  on  our  course, 
and  under  the  bows  we  watched 

"  The  swaying  soft. 
Made  by  the  delicate  wave  parted  in  front, 
As  through  the  gentle  element  we  move 
Like  shadows  gliding  through  untroubled  dreams." 

The  forms  of  beauty  fall  naturally  around  the  path  of 
him  who  is  in  the  performance  of  his  proper  work ;  as 
the  curled  shavings  drop  from  the  plane,  and  borings 
cluster  round  the  auger.  Undulation  is  the  gentlest 
and  most  ideal  of  motions,  produced  by  one  fluid 
falling  on  another.  Rippling  is  a  more  graceful  flight. 
From  a  hill-top  you  may  detect  in  it  the  wings  of 
birds  endlessly  repeated.  The  two  waving  lines 
which  represent  the  flight  of  birds  appear  to  have 
been  cop'ed  from  the  ripple. 


322    .4    WEEK   OX   THE    COXCORD   RIVER. 

The  trees  made  an  admirable  fence  to  the  land- 
scape, skirting  the  horizon  on  every  side.  The  single 
trees  and  the  groves  left  standing  on  the  interval,  ap- 
peared naturally  disposed,  though  the  farmer  had  con- 
sulted only  his  convenience,  for  he  too  falls  into  the 
scheme  of  Nature.  Art  can  never  match  the  luxury 
and  superfluity  of  Nature.  In  the  former  all  is  seen  ; 
it  cannot  afford  concealed  wealth,  and  is  niggardly  in 
comparison :  but  Nature,  even  when  she  is  scant  and 
thin  outwardly,  satisfies  us  still  by  the  assurance  of  a 
certain  generosity  at  the  roots.  In  swamps,  where 
there  is  only  here  and  there  an  evergreen  tree  amid 
the  quaking  moss  and  cranberry  beds,  the  bareness 
does  not  suggest  poverty.  The  double-spmce,  which 
I  had  hardly  noticed  in  gardens,  attracts  me  in  such 
places,  and  how  first  I  understand  why  men  try  to 
make  them  grow  about  their  houses.  But  though 
there  may  be  very  perfect  specimens  in  front-yard 
plots,  their  beauty  is  for  the  most  part  ineft'ectual 
there,  for  there  is  no  such  assurance  of  kindred  wealth 
beneath  and  around  them  to  make  them  show  to 
advantage.  As  we  have  said.  Nature  is  a  greater  and 
more  perfect  art,  the  art  of  God ;  though,  referred  to 
herself,  she  is  genius,  and  there  is  a  similarity  between 
her  operations  and  man's  art  even  in  the  details  and 
trifles.  When  the  overhanging  pine  drops  into  the 
water,  by  the  sun  and  water,  and  the  wind  rubbing  it 
against  the  shore,  its  boughs  are  worn  into  fantastic 
shapes,  and  white  and  smooth,  as  if  turned  in  a 
lathe.  Man's  art  has  wisely  imitated  those  forms  into 
which  all  matter  is  most  inclined  to  mn,  as  foliage  and 
fruit.  A  hammock  swung  in  a  grove  assumes  the 
exact  form  of  a  canoe,  broader  or  narrower,  and 
higher  or  lower  at  the  ends,  as  more  or  fewer  persons 


THURSDAY.  323 

are  in  it,  and  it  rolls  in  the  air  with  the  motion  of  the 
body,  like  a  canoe  in  the  water.  Our  art  leaves  its 
shavings  and  its  dust  about ;  her  art  exhibits  itself 
even  in  the  shavings  and  the  dust  which  we  make. 
She  has  perfected  herself  by  an  eternity  of  practice. 
The  world  is  well  kept ;  no  rubbish  accumulates  ;  the 
morning  air  is  clear  even  at  this  day,  and  no  dust  has 
settled  on  the  grass.  Behold  how  the  evening  now 
steals  over  the  fields,  the  shadows  of  the  trees  creep- 
ing further  and  further  into  the  meadow,  and  ere  long 
the  stars  will  come  to  bathe  in  these  retired  waters. 
Her  undertakings  are  secure  and  never  fail.  If  I  were 
awakened  from  a  deep  sleep,  I  should  know  which 
side  of  the  meridian  the  sun  might  be  by  the  aspect 
of  nature,  and  by  the  chirp  of  the  crickets,  and  yet  no 
painter  can  paint  this  difference.  The  landscape  con- 
tains a  thousand  dials  which  indicate  the  natural 
divisions  of  time,  the  shadows  of  a  thousand  styles 
point  to  the  hour.  — 

"  Not  only  o'er  the  dial's  face, 

This  silent  phantom  day  by  day, 
With  slow,  unseen,  unceasing  pace 

Steals  moments,  months,  and  years  away; 
From  hoary  rock  and  aged  tree. 

From  proud  Palmyra's  mouldering  walls. 
From  Teneriffe,  towering  o'er  the  sea. 

From  every  blade  of  grass  it  falls." 

It  is  almost  the  only  game  which  the  trees  play  at, 
this  tit-for-tat,  now  this  side  in  the  sun,  now  that,  the 
drama  of  the  day.  In  deep  ravines  under  the  east- 
ern sides  of  cliffs,  Night  forwardly  plants  her  foot 
even  at  noonday,  and  as  Day  retreats  she  steps 
into  his  trenches,  skulking  from  tree  to  tree,  from 
fence  to  fence,  until   at  last  she  sits    in    his    citadel 


324    --i    WEEK   ON   THE   COXCORD   RIVER. 

and  draws  out  her  forces  into  the  plain.  It  may  be 
that  the  forenoon  is  brighter  than  the  afternoon, 
not  only  because  of  the  greater  transparency  of  its 
atmosphere,  but  because  we  naturally  look  mast  into 
the  west,  as  forward  into  the  day,  and  so  in  the  fore- 
noon see  the  sunny  side  of  things,  but  in  the  after- 
noon the  shadow  of  every  tree. 

The  afternoon  is  now  far  advanced,  and  a  fresh  and 
leisurely  wind  is  blowing  over  the  river,  making  long 
reaches  of  bright  ripples.  The  river  has  done  its 
stint,  and  appears  not  to  flow,  but  lie  at  its  length  re- 
flecting the  light,  and  the  haze  over  the  woods  is  like 
the  inaudible  panting,  or  rather  the  gentle  perspira- 
tion of  resting  nature,  rising  from  a  myriad  of  pores 
into  the  attenuated  atmosphere. 

On  the  thirty-flrst  day  of  March,  one  hundred  and 
forty-two  years  before  this,  probably  about  this  time 
in  the  afternoon,  there  were  hurriedly  paddling  down 
this  part  of  the  river,  between  the  pine  woods  which 
then  fringed  these  banks,  two  white  women  and  a 
boy,  who  had  left  an  island  at  the  mouth  of  the  Con- 
toocook  before  daybreak.  They  were  slightly  clad 
for  the  season,  in  the  English  fashion,  and  handled 
their  paddles  unskilfully,  but  with  nervous  energy  and 
determination,  and  at  the  bottom  of  their  canoe  lay 
the  still  bleeding  scalps  of  ten  of  the  aborigines. 
They  were  Hannah  Dustan,  and  her  nurse,  Mary  Neft'. 
both  of  Haverhill,  eighteen  miles  from  the  mouth  of 
this  river,  and  an  English  boy,  named  Samuel  Len- 
nardson,  escaping  from  captivity  among  the  Indians. 
On  the  15th  of  March  previous,  Hannah  Dustan 
had  been  compelled  to  rise  from  childbed,  and  half- 
dressed,    with  one    foot    bare,    accompanied    by    her 


THURSDAY.  325 

nurse,  commence  an  uncertain  march,  in  still  inclem- 
ent weather,  through  the  snow  and  the  wilderness. 
She  had  seen  her  seven  elder  children  flee  with 
their  father,  but  knew  not  of  their  fate.  She  had 
seen  her  infant's  brains  dashed  out  against  an 
apple  tree,  and  had  left  her  own  and  her  neighbors' 
dwellings  in  ashes.  When  she  reached  the  wig- 
wam of  her  captor,  situated  on  an  island  in  the 
Merrimack,  more  than  twenty  miles  above  where 
we  now  are,  she  had  been  told  that  she  and  her 
nurse  were  soon  to  be  taken  to  a  distant  Indian  set- 
tlement, and  there  made  to  run  the  gauntlet  naked. 
The  family  of  this  Indian  consisted  of  two  men,  three 
women,  and  seven  children,  beside  an  English  boy, 
whom  she  found  a  prisoner  among  them.  Having 
determined  to  attempt  her  escape,  she  instructed  the 
boy  to  inquire  of  one  of  the  men,  how  he  should 
despatch  an  enemy  in  the  quickest  manner,  and  take 
his  scalp.  "  Strike  'em  there,*'  said  he,  placing  his 
finger  on  his  temple,  and  he  also  showed  him  how  to 
take  off  the  scalp.  On  the  morning  of  the  31st 
she  arose  before  daybreak,  and  awoke  her  nurse  and 
the  boy,  and  taking  the  Indians'  tomahawks,  they 
killed  them  all  in  their  sleep,  excepting  one  favorite 
boy,  and  one  squaw  who  fled  wounded  with  him  to  the 
woods.  The  English  boy  struck  the  Indian  who  had 
given  him  the  information  on  the  temple,  as  he  had 
been  directed.  They  then  collected  all  the  provision 
they  could  find,  and  took  their  master's  tomahawk 
and  gun,  and  scuttling  all  the  canoes  but  one,  com- 
menced their  flight  to  Haverhill,  distant  about  sixty 
miles  by  the  river.  But  after  having  proceeded  a 
short  distance,  fearing  that  her  story  would  not  be 
beheved  if  she  should  escape  to  tell  it.  they  returned 


326    A    WEEK   OX   THE   COX  CORD   RIVER. 

to  the  silent  wigwam,  and  taking  off  the  scalps  of  the 
dead,  put  them  into  a  bag  as  proofs  of  what  they  had 
done,  and  then  retracing  their  steps  to  the  shore  in 
the  twilight,  recommenced  their  voyage. 

Early  this  morning  this  deed  was  performed,  and 
now,  perchance,  these  tired  women  and  this  boy, 
their  clothes  stained  with  blood,  and  their  minds 
racked  with  alternate  resolution  and  fear,  are  mak- 
ing a  hasty  meal  of  parched  corn  and  moose  meat, 
while  their  canoe  glides  under  these  pine  roots  whose 
stumps  are  still  standing  on  the  bank.  They  are 
thinking  of  the  dead  whom  they  have  left  behind  on 
that  solitary  isle  far  up  the  stream,  and  of  the  relent- 
less living  warriors  who  are  in  pursuit.  Every  with- 
ered leaf  which  the  winter  has  left  seems  to  know 
their  story,  and  in  its  rustling  to  repeat  it  and  betray 
them.  An  Indian  lurks  behind  every  rock  and  pine. 
and  their  nerves  cannot  bear  the  tapping  of  a  wood- 
pecker. Or  they  forget  their  own  dangers  and  their 
deeds  in  conjecturing  the  fate  of  their  kindred,  and 
w'hether,  if  they  escape  the  Indians,  they  shall  find 
the  former  still  alive.  They  do  not  stop  to  cook  their 
meals  upon  the  bank,  nor  land,  except  to  carry  their 
canoe  about  the  falls.  The  stolen  birch  forgets  its 
master  and  does  them  good  ser\-ice,  and  the  swollen 
current  bears  them  swiftly  along  with  little  need  of  the 
paddle,  except  to  steer  and  keep  them  warm  by  exer- 
cise. For  ice  is  floating  in  the  river;  the  spring  is 
opening ;  the  muskrat  and  the  beaver  are  driven  out 
of  their  holes  by  the  flood ;  deer  gaze  at  them  from 
the  bank ;  a  few  faint-singing  forest  birds,  perchance, 
fly  across  the  river  to  the  northernmost  shore ;  the 
fish-hawk  sails  and  screams  overhead,  and  geese  fly 
over  with  a  startling  clangor ;  but  thev  do  not  observe 


THURSDAY.  327 

these  things,  or  they  speedily  forget  them.  They  do 
not  smile  or  chat  all  day.  Sometimes  they  pass  an 
Indian  grave  surrounded  by  its  paling  on  the  bank,  or 
the  frame  of  a  wigwam,  with  a  few  coals  left  behind, 
or  the  withered  stalks  still  rustling  in  the  Indian's 
solitary  cornfield  on  the  interval.  The  birch  stripped 
of  its  bark,  or  the  charred  stump  where  a  tree  has 
been  burned  down  to  be  made  into  a  canoe,  these  are 
the  only  traces  of  man,— -a  fabulous  wild  man  to  us. 
On  either  side,  the  primeval  forest  stretches  away 
uninterrupted  to  Canada  or  to  the  "  South  Sea  "  ;  to 
the  white  man  a  drear  and  howling  wilderness,  but 
to  the  Indian  a  home,  adapted  to  his  nature,  and 
cheerful  as  the  smile  of  the  Great  Spirit. 

While  we  loiter  here  this  autumn  evening,  looking 
for  a  spot  retired  enough,  where  we  shall  quietly  rest 
to-night,  they  thus,  in  that  chilly  xMarch  evening,  one 
hundred  and  forty-two  years  before  us,  with  wind  and 
current  favoring,  have  already  glided  out  of  sight,  not 
to  camp,  as  we  shall,  at  night,  but  while  two  sleep  one 
will  manage  the  canoe,  and  the  swift  stream  bear  them 
onward  to  the  settlements,  it  may  be,  even  to  old  John 
LovewelPs  house  on  Salmon  Brook  to-night. 

According  to  the  historian,  they  escaped  as  by  a 
miracle  all  roving  bands  of  Indians,  and  reached  their 
homes  in  safety,  with  their  trophies,  for  which  the 
General  Court  paid  them  fifty  pounds.  The  family 
of  Hannah  Dustan  all  assembled  alive  once  more,  ex- 
cept the  infant  whose  brains  were  dashed  out  against 
the  apple  tree,  and  there  have  been  many  who  in  later 
times  have  lived  to  say  that  they  had  eaten  of  the  fruit 
of  that  apple  tree. 


328    A    WEEK   ON   THE  CO lY CORD  RIVER. 

This  seems  a  long  while  ago,  and  yet  it  happened 
since  Milton  wrote  his  Paradise  Lost.  But  its  an- 
tiquity is  not  the  less  great  for  that,  for  we  do  not 
regulate  our  historical  time  by  the  English  standard, 
nor  did  the  English  by  the  Roman,  nor  the  Roman 
by  the  Greek.  '•  We  must  look  a  long  way  back,"" 
says  Raleigh.  ••  to  find  the  Romans  giving  laws  to 
nations,  and  their  consuls  brmging  kings  and  princes 
bound  in  chains  to  Rome  in  triumph  ;  to  see  men  go 
to  Greece  for  wisdom,  or  Ophir  for  gold ;  when  now 
nothing  remains  but  a  poor  paper  remembrance  of 
their  former  condition."'  —  And  yet,  in  one  sense,  not 
so  far  back  as  to  find  the  Penacooks  and  Pawtuckets 
using  bows  and  arrows  and  hatchets  of  stone,  on  the 
banks  of  the  Merrimack.  From  this  September  after- 
noon, and  from  between  these  now  cultivated  shores, 
those  times  seem  more  remote  than  the  dark  ages. 
On  beholding  an  old  picture  of  Concord,  as  it  appeared 
but  seventy-five  years  ago,  with  a  fair,  open  prospect 
and  a  light  on  trees  and  river,  as  if  it  were  broad 
noon,  I  find  that  I  had  not  thought  the  sun  shone  in 
those  days,  or  that  men  lived  in  broad  daylight  then. 
Still  less  do  we  imagine  the  sun  shining  on  hill 
and  valley  during  Philip's  war,  on  the  warpath  of 
Church  or  Philip,  or  later  of  Lovewell  or  Paugus, 
with  serene  summer  weather,  but  they  must  have 
lived  and  fought  in  a  dim  twilight  or  night. 

The  age  of  the  world  is  great  enough  for  our 
imaginations,  even  according  to  the  Mosaic  account, 
without  borrowing  any  years  from  the  geologist. 
From  Adam  and  Eve  at  one  leap  sheer  down  to  the 
deluge,  and  then  through  the  ancient  monarchies, 
through  Babylon  and  Thebes,  Brahma  and  Abraham, 
to  Greece  and  the  Argonauts  :  whence  we  might  start 


THURSDAY.  329 

again  with  Orpheus  and  the  Trojan  war,  the  Pyramids 
and  the  Olympic  games,  and  Homer  and  Athens,  for 
our  stages  ;  and  after  a  breathing  space  at  the  build- 
ing of  Rome,  continue  our  journey  down  through 
Odin  and  Christ  to  —  America.  It  is  a  wearisome 
while.  —  And  yet  the  lives  of  but  sixty  old  women, 
such  as  live  under  the  hill,  say  of  a  century  each, 
strung  together,  are  sufficient  to  reach  over  the  whole 
ground.  Taking  hold  of  hands  they  would  span  the 
interval  from  Eve  to  my  own  mother.  A  respectable 
tea-party  merely,  —  whose  gossip  would  be  Universal 
History.  The  fourth  old  woman  from  myself  suckled 
Columbus,  —  the  ninth  was  nurse  to  the  Norman 
Conqueror,  —  the  nineteenth  was  the  Virgin  Mary, — 
the  twenty-fourth  the  Cumaean  Sibyl,  —  the  thirtieth 
was  at  the  Trojan  war  and  Helen  her  name.  —  the 
thirty-eighth  was  Queen  Semiramis, — the  sixtieth  was 
Eve  the  mother  of  mankind.     So  much  for  the 

—  "  old  woman  that  lives  under  the  hill, 
And  if  she  's  not  gone  she  lives  there  still." 

It  will  not  take  a  very  great  grand-daughter  of  hers  to 
be  in  at  the  death  of  time. 

We  can  never  safely  exceed  the  actual  facts  in  our 
narratives.  Of  pure  invention,  such  as  some  suppose, 
there  is  no  instance.  To  write  a  true  work  of  fiction 
even,  is  only  to  take  leisure  and  liberty  to  describe 
some  things  more  exactly  as  they  are.  A  true  account 
of  the  actual  is  the  rarest  poetry,  for  common  sense 
always  takes  a  hasty  and  superficial  view.  Though  I 
am  not  much  acquainted  with  the  works  of  Goethe, 
I  should  say  that  it  was  one  of  his  chief  excellencies 
as  a  writer,  that  he  is  satisfied  with  giving  an  exact 
description  of  things  as  they  appear  to  him.  and  their 


330    -^    WEEK   ON    THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

effect  upon  him.  Most  travellers  have  not  self-respect 
enough  to  do  this  simply,  and  make  objects  and  events 
stand  around  them  as  the  centre,  but  still  imagine  more 
favorable  positions  and  relations  than  the  actual  ones, 
and  so  we  get  no  valuable  report  from  them  at  all. 
In  his  Italian  Travels  Goethe  jogs  along  at  a  snail's 
pace,  but  always  mindful  that  the  earth  is  beneath 
and  the  heavens  are  above  him.  His  Italy  is  not 
merely  the  fatherland  of  lazzaroni  and  virtuosi,  and 
scene  of  splendid  ruins,  but  a  solid  turf-clad  soil, 
daily  shined  on  by  the  sun,  and  nightly  by  the  moon. 
Even  the  few  showers  are  faithfully  recorded.  He 
speaks  as  an  unconcerned  spectator,  whose  object  is 
faithfully  to  describe  what  he  sees,  and  that,  for  the 
most  part,  in  the  order  in  which  he  sees  it.  Even 
his  reflections  do  not  interfere  with  his  descriptions. 
In  one  place  he  speaks  of  himself  as  giving  so  glow- 
ing and  truthful  a  description  of  an  old  tower  to  the 
peasants  who  had  gathered  around  him,  that  they 
who  had  been  born  and  brought  up  in  the  neighbor- 
hood must  needs  look  over  their  shoulders,  "  that,"*  to 
use  his  own  words,  "they  might  behold  with  their 
eyes,  what  I  had  praised  to  their  ears  *'  —  ''  and  I 
added  nothing,  not  even  the  ivy  which  for  centuries 
had  decorated  the  walls."  It  would  thus  be  possible 
for  inferior  minds  to  produce  invaluable  books,  if  this 
very  moderation  were  not  the  evidence  of  superiority  ; 
for  the  wise  are  not  so  much  wiser  than  others  as 
respecters  of  their  own  wisdom.  Some,  poor  in 
spirit,  record  plaintively  only  what  has  happened  to 
them :  but  others  how  they  have  happened  to  the 
universe,  and  the  judgment  which  they  have  awarded 
to  circumstances.  Above  all,  he  possessed  a  hearty 
good-will  to  all  men.  and  never  wrote  a  cross  or  even 


THURSDAY.  33 1 

careless  word.  On  one  occasion  the  post-boy  snivel- 
ling ''  Signor  perdonate,  questa  e  la  mia  patria,"  he 
confesses  that  ^^  to  me  poor  northerner  came  some- 
thing tear-like  into  the  eyes." 

Goethe's  whole  education  and  life  were  those  of  the 
artist.  He  lacks  the  unconsciousness  of  the  poet.  In 
his  autobiography  he  describes  accurately  the  life  of 
the  author  of  Wilhelm  Meister.  For  as  there  is 
in  that  book,  mingled  with  a  rare  and  serene  wis- 
dom, a  certain  pettiness  or  exaggeration  of  trifles, 
wisdom  applied  to  produce  a  constrained  and  partial 
and  merely  well-bred  man,  —  a  magnifying  of  the 
theatre  till  life  itself  is  turned  into  a  stage,  for  which 
it  is  our  duty  to  study  our  parts  well,  and  conduct 
with  propriety  and  precision,  —  so  in  the  autobiog- 
raphy, the  fault  of  his  education  is,  so  to  speak,  its 
artistic  completeness.  Nature  is  hindered,  though 
she  prevails  at  last  in  making  an  unusually  catholic 
impression  on  the  boy.  It  is  the  life  of  a  city  boy, 
whose  toys  are  pictures  and  works  of  art.  whose 
wonders  are  the  theatre  and  kingly  processions  and 
crownings.  As  the  youth  studied  minutely  the  order 
and  the  degrees  in  the  imperial  procession,  and  suf- 
fered none  of  its  effect  to  be  lost  on  him ;  so  the  man 
aimed  to  secure  a  rank  in  society  which  would  satisfy 
his  notion  of  fitness  and  respectability.  He  was  de- 
frauded of  much  which  the  savage  boy  enjoys.  Indeed 
he  himself  has  occasion  to  say  in  this  very  autobiog- 
raphy, when  at  last  he  escapes  into  the  woods  with- 
out the  gates,  —  '•  Thus  much  is  certain,  that  only  the 
undefinable,  wide-expanding  feelings  of  youth  and  of 
uncuhivated  nations  are  adapted  to  the  sublime,  which 
whenever  it  may  be  excited  in  us  through  external 
objects,  since  it  is  either  formless,  or  else  moulded 


332    .1    IVEEK   OX   THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

into  forms  which  are  incomprehensible,  must  surround 
us  with  a  grandeur  which  we  find  above  our  reach."' 
He  further  says  of  himself,  —  "I  had  lived  among 
painters  from  my  childhood,  and  had  accustomed 
myself  to  look  at  objects  as  they  did,  with  reference 
to  art."  And  this  was  his  practice  to  the  last.  He 
was  even  too  luell-bred  to  be  thoroughly  bred.  He 
says  that  he  had  had  no  intercourse  with  the  lowest 
class  of  his  towns-boys.  The  child  should  have  the 
advantage  of  ignorance  as  well  as  of  knowledge,  and 
is  fortunate  if  he  gets  his  share  of  neglect  and 
exposure.  — 

"  The  laws  of  Nature  break  the  rules  of  Art." 

The  Man  of  Genius  may  at  the  same  time  be.  indeed 
is  commonly,  an  Artist,  but  the  two  are  not  to  be  con- 
founded. The  Man  of  Genius,  referred  to  mankind, 
is  an  originator,  an  inspired  or  demonic  man,  who 
produces  a  perfect  work  in  obedience  to  laws  yet 
unexplored.  The  Artist  is  he  who  detects  and  ap- 
plies the  law  from  observation  of  the  works  of 
(Genius,  whether  of  man  or  nature.  The  Artisan  is 
he  who  merely  applies  the  rules  w-hich  others  have 
detected.  There  has  been  no  man  of  pure  Genius: 
as  there  has  been  none  wholly  destitute  of  Genius. 

Poetry  is  the  mysticism  of  mankind. 

The  expressions  of  the  poet  cannot  be  analyzed ; 
his  sentence  is  one  word,  whose  syllables  are  words. 
There  are  indeed  no  words  quite  worthy  to  be  set 
to  his  music.  But  what  matter  if  we  do  not  hear  the 
words  always,  if  we  hear  the  music? 

Much  verse  fails  of  being  poetry  because  it  was 
not  written  exactly  at  the  right  crisis,  though  it 
may  have  been  inconceivably  near  to  it.     It  is  only 


I'HURSDAY.  333 

by  a  miracle  that  poetry  is  written  at  all.  It  is 
not  recoverable  thought,  but  a  hue  caught  from  a 
vaster  receding  thought. 

A  poem  is  one  undivided  unimpeded  expression 
fallen  ripe  into  literature,  and  it  is  undividedly  and 
unimpededly  received  by  those  for  whom  it  was 
matured. 

If  you  can  speak  what  you  will  never  hear,  —  if 
you  can  write  what  you  will  never  read,  you  have 
done   rare  things. 


The  work  we  choose  should  be  our  own, 
God  lets  alone. 

The  unconsciousness  of  man  is  the  consciousness 
of  God. 

Deep  are  the  foundations  of  sincerity.  Even  stone 
walls  have  their  foundation  below  the  frost. 

What  is  produced  by  a  free  stroke  charms  us,  like 
the  forms  of  lichens  and  leaves.  There  is  a  certain 
perfection  in  accident  which  we  never  consciously 
attain.  Draw  a  blunt  quill  filled  with  ink  over  a 
sheet  of  paper,  and  fold  the  paper  before  the  ink  is 
dry,  transversely  to  this  line,  and  a  delicately  shaded 
and  regular  figure  will  be  produced,  in  some  respects 
more  pleasing  than  an  elaborate  drawing. 

The  talent  of  composition  is  very  dangerous, — 
the  striking  out  the  heart  of  life  at  a  blow,  as  the 
Indian  takes  off  a  scalp.  I  feel  as  if  my  life  had 
grown  more  outward  when  I  can  express  it. 

On  his  journey  from  Brenner  to  Verona,  Goethe 
writes,  "  The  Tees  flows  now  more  gently,  and 
makes  in  many  places  broad  sands.       On  the  land, 


334    --^    WEEK  ON   THE    COXCORD   RIVER. 

near  to  the  water,  upon  the  hill-sides,  everything  is 
so  closely  planted  one  to  another,  that  you  think 
they  must  choke  one  another,  —  vineyards,  maize, 
mulberry  trees,  apples,  pears,  quinces,  and  nuts. 
The  dwarf  elder  throws  itself  vigorously  over  the 
walls.  Ivy  grows  with  strong  stems  up  the  rocks, 
and  spreads  itself  wide  over  them,  the  lizard  glides 
through  the  intervals,  and  everything  that  wanders 
to  and  fro  reminds  one  of  the  loveliest  pictures  of 
art.  The  women's  tufts  of  hair  bound  up,  the  men's 
bare  breasts  and  light  jackets,  the  excellent  oxen 
which  they  drive  home  from  market,  the  little  asses 
with  their  loads.  —  everything  forms  a  living,  animated 
Heinrich  Roos.  And  now  that  it  is  evening,  in  the 
mild  air  a  few  clouds  rest  upon  the  mountains,  in  the 
heavens  more  stand  still  than  move,  and  immediately 
after  sunset  the  chirping  of  crickets  begins  to  grow 
more  loud :  then  one  feels  for  once  at  home  in  the 
world,  and  not  as  concealed  or  in  exile.  I  am  con- 
tented as  though  I  had  been  born  and  brought  up 
here,  and  were  now  returning  from  a  Greenland  or 
whaling  voyage.  Even  the  dust  of  my  Fatherland, 
which  is  often  whirled  about  the  wagon,  and  which 
for  so  long  a  time  I  had  not  seen,  is  greeted.  The 
clock-and-bell  jingling  of  the  crickets  is  altogether 
lovely,  penetrating,  and  agreeable.  It  sounds  bravely 
when  roguish  boys  whistle  in  emulation  of  a  field  of 
such  songstresses.  One  fancies  that  they  really  en- 
hance one  another.  Also  the  evening  is  perfectly 
mild  as  the  day."' 

••  If  one  who  dwelt  in  the  south  and  came  hither 
from  the  south  should  hear  of  my  rapture  hereupon, 
he  would  deem  me  very  childish.  Alas  I  what  I  here 
express  I  have  long  known  while  I  suffered  under  an 


THURSDAY.  335 

unpropitious  heaven,  and  now  may  I  joyful  feel  this 
joy  as  an  exception,  which  we  should  enjoy  everforth 
as  an  eternal  necessity  of  our  nature/' 

Thus  we  "'sayled  by  thought  and  pleasaunce,''  as 
Chaucer  says,  and  all  things  seemed  with  us  to  flow  ; 
the  shore  itself,  and  the  distant  cliffs,  were  dissolved 
by  the  undiluted  air.  The  hardest  material  seemed 
to  obey  the  same  law  with  the  most  fluid,  and  so 
indeed  in  the  long  run  it  does.  Trees  were  but  rivers 
of  sap  and  woody  fibre,  flowing  from  the  atmosphere, 
and  emptying  into  the  earth  by  their  trunks,  as  their 
roots  flowed  upward  to  the  surface.  And  in  the 
heavens  there  were  rivers  of  stars,  and  milky  ways, 
already  beginning  to  gleam  and  ripple  over  our 
heads.  There  were  rivers  of  rock  on  the  surface  of 
the  earth,  and  rivers  of  ore  in  its  bowels,  and  our 
thoughts  flowed  and  circulated,  and  this  portion  of 
time  was  but  the  current  hour.  Let  us  wander  where 
we  will,  the  universe  is  built  round  about  us,  and  we 
are  central  still.  If  we  look  into  the  heavens  they 
are  concave,  and  if  we  were  to  look  into  a  gulf  as 
bottomless,  it  would  be  concave  also.  The  sky  is 
curved  downward  to  the  earth  in  the  horizon,  because 
we  stand  on  the  plain.  I  draw  down  its  skirts.  The 
stars  so  low  there  seem  loath  to  depart,  but  by  a  cir- 
cuitous path  to  be  remembering  me,  and  returning  on 
their  steps. 

We  had  already  passed  by  broad  daylight  the  scene 
of  our  encampmen^  at  Coos  Falls,  and  at  length  we 
pitched  our  camp  on  the  west  bank,  in  the  northern 
part  of  Merrimack,  nearly  opposite  to  the  large  island 
on  which  we  had  spent  the  noon  in  our  way  up  the 
river. 


336    A    WEEK   OX  THE    COX  CORD   RIVER. 

There  we  went  to  bed  that  summer  evening,  on  a 
sloping  shelf  in  the  bank,  a  couple  of  rods  from  our 
boat,  which  was  drawn  up  on  the  sand,  and  just  behind 
a  thin  fringe  of  oaks  which  bordered  the  river ;  with- 
out having  disturbed  any  inhabitants  but  the  spiders 
in  the  grass,  which  came  out  by  the  light  of  our  lamp 
and  crawled  over  our  bufTaloes.  When  we  looked 
out  from  under  the  tent,  the  trees  were  seen  dimly 
through  the  mist,  and  a  cool  dew  hung  upon  the 
grass,  which  seemed  to  rejoice  in  the  night,  and  with 
the  damp  air  we  inhaled  a  solid  fragrance.  Having 
eaten  our  supper  of  hot  cocoa  and  bread  and  water- 
melon, we  soon  grew  weary  of  conversing  and  writing 
in  our  journals,  and  putting  out  the  lantern  which 
hung  from  the  tent  pole,  fell  asleep. 

Unfortunately  many  things  have  been  omitted 
which  should  have  been  recorded  in  our  journal,  for 
though  we  made  it  a  rule  to  set  down  all  our  experi- 
ences therein,  yet  such  a  resolution  is  very  hard  to 
keep,  for  the  important  experience  rarely  allows  us  to 
remember  such  obligations,  and  so  indifferent  things 
get  recorded,  while  that  is  frequently  neglected.  It 
is  not  easy  to  write  in  a  journal  what  interests  us  at 
any  time,  because  to  write  it  is  not  what  interests  us. 

Whenever  we  awoke  in  the  night,  still  eking  out 
our  dreams  with  half-awakened  thoughts,  it  was  not 
till  after  an  interval,  when  the  wind  breathed  harder 
than  usual,  flapping  the  curtains  of  the  tent,  and 
causing  its  cords  to  vibrate,  that  we  remembered  that 
we  lay  on  the  bank  of  the  Merrimack,  and  not  in 
our  chamber  at  home.  With  our  heads  so  low  in  the 
grass,  we  heard  the  river  whirling  and  sucking,  and 
lapsing  downward,  kissing  the  shore  as  it  went,  some- 
times ri])pling  louder  than  usual,  and  again  its  mighty 


THURSDAY.  337 

current  making  only  a  slight  limpid  trickling  sound, 
as  if  our  water-pail  had  sprung  a  leak,  and  the  water 
were  flowing  into  the  grass  by  our  side.  The  wind, 
rustling  the  oaks  and  hazels,  impressed  us  like  a 
wakeful  and  inconsiderate  person  up  at  midnight, 
moving  about  and  putting  things  to  rights,  occasion- 
ally stirring  up  whole  drawers  full  of  leaves  at  a  puff. 
There  seemed  to  be  a  great  haste  and  preparation 
throughout  Nature,  as  for  a  distinguished  visitor; 
all  her  aisles  had  to  be  swept  in  the  night,  by  a 
thousand  hand-maidens,  and  a  thousand  pots  to  be 
boiled  for  the  next  day's  feasting ;  —  such  a  whisper- 
ing bustle,  as  if  ten  thousand  fairies  made  their 
fingers  fly,  silently  sewing  at  the  new  carpet  with 
which  the  earth  was  to  be  clothed,  and  the  new  dra- 
pery which  was  to  adorn  the  trees.  And  then  the 
wind  would  lull  and  die  an'ay  and  we  like  it  fell 
asleep  again. 


FRIDAY. 

"  The  Boteman  strayt 
Held  on  his  course  with  stayed  stedfastnesse, 
Ne  ever  shroncke,  ne  ever  sought  to  bayt 
His  tryed  armes  for  toylesome  wearinesse  ; 
But  with  liis  oares  did  sweepe  the  watry  wildernesse." 

Spenser. 

"  Summer's  robe  grows 
Dusky,  and  hke  an  oft-dyed  garment  shows." 

Donne. 

As  we  lay  awake  long  before  daybreak,  listening 
to  the  rippling  of  the  river  and  the  rustling  of  the 
leaves,  in  suspense  whether  the  wind  blew  up  or  down 
the  stream,  was  favorable  or  unfavorable  to  our  voy- 
age, we  already  suspected  that  there  was  a  change 
in  the  weather,  from  a  freshness  as  of  autumn  in  these 
sounds.  The  wind  in  the  woods  sounded  like 
an  incessant  waterfall  dashing  and  roaring  amid 
rocks,  and  we  even  felt  encouraged  by  the  unusual 
activity  of  the  elements.  He  who  hears  the  rippling 
of  rivers  in  these  degenerate  days  will  not  utterly 
despair.  That  night  was  the  turning  point  in  the 
season.  We  had  gone  to  bed  in  summer,  and  we 
awoke  in  autumn ;  for  summer  passes  into  autumn 
in  some  unimaginable  point  of  time,  like  the  turning 
of  a  leaf. 

We  found  our  boat  in  the  dawn  just  as  we  had  left 
it,  and  as  if  waiting  for  us,  there  on  the  shore,  in 
autumn,  all    cool    and    dripping    wdth    dew%  and    our 


FRIDAY.  339 

tracks  still  fresh  in  the  wet  sand  around  it,  the  fairies 
all  gone  or  concealed.  Before  five  o'clock  we  pushed 
it  into  the  fog,  and  leaping  in,  at  one  shove  were  out 
of  sight  of  the  shores,  and  began  to  sweep  downward 
with  the  rushing  river,  keeping  a  sharp  look  out  for 
rocks.  We  could  see  only  the  yellow  gurgling  water, 
and  a  solid  bank  of  fog  on  every  side  forming  a  small 
yard  around  us.  We  soon  passed  the  mouth  of  the 
Souhegan  and  the  village  of  Merrimack,  and  as  the 
mist  gradually  rolled  away,  and  we  were  relieved  from 
the  trouble  of  watching  for  rocks,  we  saw  by  the  flit- 
ting clouds,  by  the  first  russet  tinge  on  the  hills,  by 
the  rushing  river,  the  cottages  on  shore,  and  the  shore 
itself,  so  coolly  fresh  and  shining  with  dew,  and  later 
in  the  day,  by  the  hue  of  the  grape  vine,  the  gold- 
finch on  the  willow,  the  flickers  flying  in  flocks, 
and  when  we  passed  near  enough  to  the  shore,  as 
we  fancied,  by  the  faces  of  men,  that  the  Fall  had 
commenced.  The  cottages  looked  more  snug  and 
comfortable,  and  their  inhabitants  were  seen  only  for 
a  moment,  and  then  went  quietly  in  and  shut  the 
door,  retreating  inward  to  the  haunts  of  summer. 

"And  now  the  cold  autumnal  dews  are  seen 
To  cobweb  ev'iy  green  ; 
And  by  the  low-shorn  rowens  doth  appear 
The  fast  declining  year." 

We  heard  the  sigh  of  the  first  autumnal  wind,  and 
even  the  water  had  acquired  a  grayer  hue.  The 
sumach,  grape,  and  maple  were  already  changed,  and 
the  milkweed  had  turned  to  a  deep  rich  yellow.  In 
all  woods  the  leaves  were  fast  ripening  for  their  fall ; 
for  their  full  veins  and  lively  gloss  mark  the  ripe 
leaf,  and  not  the  sered  one  of  the  poets  ;  and  we  knew 


340    --/    WEEK   ON   THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

that  the  maples,  stripped  of  their  leaves  among  the 
earliest,  would  soon  stand  like  a  wreath  of  smoke 
along  the  edge  of  the  meadow.  Already  the  cattle 
were  heard  to  low  wildly  in  the  pastures  and  along 
the  highways,  restlessly  running  to  and  fro,  as  if  in 
apprehension  of  the  withering  of  the  grass  and  of  the 
approach  of  winter.  Our  thoughts  too  began  to 
rustle. 

As  I  pass  along  the  streets  of  our  village  of  Con- 
cord on  the  day  of  our  annual  Cattle  Show,  when 
it  usually  happens  that  the  leaves  of  the  elms 
and  buttonwoods  begin  first  to  strew  the  ground 
under  the  breath  of  the  October  wind,  the  lively 
spirits  in  their  sap  seem  to  mount  as  high  as  any 
plow-boy's  let  loose  that  day:  and  they  lead  my 
thoughts  away  to  the  rustling  woods,  where  the 
trees  are  preparing  for  their  winter  campaign.  This 
autumnal  festival,  when  men  are  gathered  in  crowds 
in  the  streets  as  regularly  and  by  as  natural  a  law 
as  the  leaves  cluster  and  rustle  by  the  wayside,  is 
naturally  associated  in  my  mind  with  the  fall  of  the 
year.  The  low  of  cattle  in  the  streets  sounds  like 
a  hoarse  symphony  or  running  base  to  the  rustling 
of  the  leaves.  The  wind  goes  hurrying  down  the 
country,  gleaning  every  loose  straw  that  is  left  in 
the  fields,  while  every  farmer  lad  too  appears  to 
scud  before  it,  —  having  donned  his  best  pea-jacket 
and  pepper-and-salt  waistcoat,  his  unbent  trousers, 
outstanding  rigging  of  duck,  or  kersymere,  or  cor- 
duroy, and  his  furry  hat  withal,  —  to  country  fairs 
and  cattle-shows,  to  that  Rome  among  the  villages 
where  the  treasures  of  the  year  are  gathered.  All 
the  land  over  they  go  leaping  the  fences  with  their 


FRIDAY.  341 

tough  idle  palms,  which  have  never  learned  to  hang 
by  their  sides,  amid  the  low  of  calves  and  the  bleat- 
ing of  sheep,  —  Amos,  Abner,  Elnathan,  Elbridge, — 

"  From  steep  pine-bearing  mountains  to  the  plain." 

I  love  these  sons  of  earth,  every  mother's  son  of 
them,  with  their  great  hearty  hearts  rushing  tumul- 
tuously  in  herds  from  spectacle  to  spectacle,  as  if 
fearful  lest  there  should  not  be  time  between  sun  and 
sun  to  see  them  all,  and  the  sun  does  not  wait  more 
than  in  haying  time. 

"  Wise  nature's  darlings,  they  live  in  the  world 
Perplexing  not  themselves  how  it  is  hurled." 

Running  hither  and  thither  with  appetite  for  the 
coarse  pastimes  of  the  day,  now  with  boisterous  speed 
at  the  heels  of  the  inspired  negro  from  whose  larynx 
the  melodies  of  all  Congo  and  Guinea  coast  have 
broke  loose  into  our  streets ;  now  to  see  the  proces- 
sion of  a  hundred  yoke  of  oxen,  all  as  august  and 
grave  as  Osiris,  or  the  droves  of  neat  cattle  and  milch 
cows  as  unspotted  as  Isis  or  lo.  Such  as  had  no 
love  for  Nature 

"  at  all, 
Came  lovers  home  from  this  great  festival." 

They  may  bring  their  fattest  cattle  and  richest  fruits 
to  the  fair,  but  they  are  all  eclipsed  by  the  show 
of  men.  These  are  stirring  autumn  days,  when  men 
sweep  by  in  crowds,  amid  the  rustle  of  leaves,  like 
migrating  finches,  this  is  the  true  harvest  of  the  year, 
when  the  air  is  but  the  breath  of  men,  and  the  rus- 
tling of  leaves  is  as  the  trampling  of  the  crowd.  We 
read  now-a-days  of  the  ancient  festivals,  games,  and 
processions   of  the   Greeks   and    Etruscans,    with   a 


342    A    WEEK   ON   THE    CONCORD  RIVER. 

little  incredulity,  or  at  least  with  little  sympathy ; 
but  how  natural  and  irrepressible  in  every  people 
is  some  hearty  and  palpable  greeting  of  Nature.  The 
Corybantes,  the  Bacchantes,  the  rude  primitive  trage- 
dians with  their  procession  and  goat-song,  and  the 
whole  paraphernalia  of  the  Panathenaea,  which  appear 
so  antiquated  and  peculiar,  have  their  parallel  now. 
The  husbandman  is  always  a  better  Greek  than  the 
scholar  is  prepared  to  appreciate,  and  the  old  custom 
still  survives,  while  antiquarians  and  scholars  grow 
gray  in  commemorating  it.  The  farmers  crowd  to 
the  fair  to-day  in  obedience  to  the  same  ancient  law, 
which  Solon  or  Lycurgus  did  not  enact,  as  naturally 
as  bees  swarm  and  follow  their  queen. 

It  is  worth  the  while  to  see  the  country's  people, 
how  they  pour  into  the  town,  the  sober  farmer  folk, 
now  all  agog,  their  very  shirt  and  coat  collars  point- 
ing forward.  —  collars  so  broad  as  if  they  had  put 
their  shirts  on  wrong  end  upward,  for  the  fashions 
always  tend  to  superfluity,  —  and  with  an  unusual 
springiness  in  their  gait,  jabbering  earnestly  to  one 
another.  The  more  supple  vagabond,  too,  is  sure 
to  appear  on  the  least  rumor  of  such  a  gathering, 
and  the  next  day  to  disappear,  and  go  into  his  hole 
like  the  seventeen-year  locust,  in  an  ever  shabby 
coat,  though  finer  than  the  farmer's  best,  yet  never 
dressed ;  come  to  see  the  sport,  and  have  a  hand 
in  what  is  going,  —  to  know  "what's  the  row,''  if 
there  is  any ;  to  be  where  some  men  are  drunk,  some 
horses  race,  some  cockerels  fight ;  anxious  to  be 
shaking  props  under  a  table,  and  above  all  to  see 
the  "striped  pig-"'  He  especially  is  the  creature  of 
the  occasion.  He  empties  both  his  pockets  and  his 
character  into  the  stream,  and  swims  in  such  a  day. 


FRIDAY.  343 

He  dearly  loves  the  social  slush.    There  is  no  reserve 
of  soberness  in  him. 

I  love  to  see  the  herd  of  men  feeding  heartily  on 
coarse  and  succulent  pleasures,  as  cattle  on  the  husks 
and  stalks  of  vegetables.  Though  there  are  many 
crooked  and  crabbled  specimens  of  humanity  among 
them,  run  all  to  thorn  and  rind,  and  crowded  out 
of  shape  by  adverse  circumstances,  like  the  third 
chestnut  in  the  burr,  so  that  you  wonder  to  see  some 
heads  wear  a  whole  hat,  yet  fear  not  that  the  race 
will  fail  or  waver  in  them  ;  like  the  crabs  which  grow 
in  hedges,  they  furnish  the  stocks  of  sweet  and  thrifty 
fruits  still.  Thus  is  nature  recruited  from  age  to  age, 
while  the  fair  and  palatable  varieties  die  out  and  have 
their  period.  This  is  that  mankind.  How  cheap 
must  be  the  material  of  which  so  many  are  made. 

The  wind  blew  steadily  down  the  stream,  so  that 
we  kept  our  sails  set,  and  lost  not  a  moment  of 
the  forenoon  by  delays,  but  from  early  morning  until 
noon,  were  continually  dropping  downward.  With 
our  hands  on  the  steering  paddle,  which  was  thrust 
deep  into  the  river,  or  bending  to  the  oar,  which 
indeed  we  rarely  relinquished,  we  felt  each  palpitation 
in  the  veins  of  our  steed,  and  each  impulse  of  the 
wings  which  drew  us  above.  The  current  of  our 
thoughts  made  as  sudden  bends  as  the  river,  which 
was  continually  opening  new  prospects  to  the  east 
or  south,  but  we  are  aware  that  rivers  flow  most 
rapidly  and  shallowest  at  these  points.  The  stead- 
fast shores  never  once  turned  aside  for  us,  but  still 
trended  as  they  were  made ;  why  then  should  we 
always  turn  aside  for  them  ? 

A  man  cannot  wheedle  nor  overawe  his  Genius.     It 


344    -^    n'EEK   ON   THE    COXCORD  RIVER. 

requires  to  be  conciliated  by  nobler  conduct  than 
the  world  demands  or  can  appreciate.  These  winged 
thoughts  are  like  birds,  and  will  not  be  handled ; 
even  hens  will  not  let  you  touch  them  like  quad- 
rupeds. Nothing  was  ever  so  unfamiliar  and  star- 
tling to  a  man  as  his  own  thoughts. 

To  the  rarest  genius  it  is  the  most  expensive  to 
succumb  and  conform  to  the  ways  of  the  world. 
Genius  is  the  worst  of  lumber,  if  the  poet  would  float 
upon  the  breeze  of  popularity.  The  bird  of  paradise 
is  obliged  constantly  to  fly  against  the  wind,  lest 
its  gay  trappings,  pressing  close  to  its  body,  may 
impede  its  free  movements. 

He  is  the  best  sailor  who  can  steer  within  the  fewest 
points  of  the  wind,  and  exact  a  motive  power  out  of 
the  greatest  obstacles.  Most  begin  to  veer  and  tack 
as  soon  as  the  wind  changes  from  aft,  and  as  within  the 
tropics  it  does  not  blow  from  all  points  of  the  compass, 
there  are  some  harbors  which  they  can  never  reach. 

The  poet  is  no  tender  slip  of  fairy  stock,  who  re- 
quires peculiar  institutions  and  edicts  for  his  defence, 
but  the  toughest  son  of  earth  and  of  Heaven,  and  by 
his  greater  strength  and  endurance  his  fainting  com- 
panions will  recognize  the  God  in  him.  It  is  the 
worshippers  of  beauty,  after  all.  who  have  done  the 
real  pioneer  work  of  the  world. 

The  poet  will  prevail  to  be  popular  in  spite  of  his 
faults,  and  in  spite  of  his  beauties  too.  He  will  hit 
the  nail  on  the  head,  and  we  shall  not  know  the  shape 
of  his  hammer.  He  makes  us  free  of  his  hearth  and 
heart,  which  is  greater  than  to  off"er  one  the  freedom 
of  a  city. 

Great  men.  unknown  to  their  generation,  have  their 
fame  among  the  great  who  have  preceded  them,  and 


FRIDAY.  345 

all  true  worldly  fame  subsides  from  their  high  esti- 
mate beyond  the  stars. 

Orpheus  does  not  hear  the  strains  which  issue  from 
his  lyre,  but  only  those  which  are  breathed  into  it ; 
for  the  original  strain  precedes  the  sound,  by  as  much 
as  the  echo  follows  after ;  the  rest  is  the  perquisite  of 
the  rocks  and  trees  and  beasts. 

When  I  stand  in  a  library  where  is  all  the  recorded 
wit  of  the  world,  but  none  of  the  recording,  a  mere 
accumulated,  and  not  truly  cumulative  treasure,  where 
immortal  works  stand  side  by  side  with  antholo- 
gies which  did  not  survive  their  moth,  and  cobweb 
and  mildew  have  already  spread  from  these  to  the 
binding  of  those  ;  and  happily  I  am  reminded  of  what 
poetry  is,  I  perceive  that  Shakspeare  and  Milton  did 
not  foresee  into  what  company  they  were  to  fall. 
Alas !  that  so  soon  the  work  of  a  true  poet  should  be 
swept  into  such  a  dust-hole! 

The  poet  will  write  for  his  peers  alone.  He  will 
remember  only  that  he  saw  truth  and  beauty  from  his 
position,  and  expect  the  time  when  a  vision  as  broad 
shall  overlook  the  same  field  as  freely. 

We  are  often  prompted  to  speak  our  thoughts  to 
our  neighbors,  or  the  single  travellers  whom  we  meet 
on  the  road,  but  poetry  is  a  communication  from  our 
home  and  solitude  addressed  to  all  Intelligence.  It 
never  whispers  in  a  private  ear.  Knowing  this,  we 
may  understand  those  sonnets  said  to  be  addressed 
to  particular  persons,  or  "to  a  Mistress'  Eyebrow."' 
Let  none  feel  flattered  by  them.  For  poetry  write 
love,  and  it  will  be  equally  true. 

.No  doubt  it  is  an  important  difference  between 
men  of  genius  or  poets,  and  men  not  of  genius,  that 
the  latter  are  unable  to  grasp  and  confront  the  thought 


346    A    WEEK  OX   THE    CONCORD   RTVER. 

which  visits  them.  But  it  is  because  it  is  too  faint 
for  expression,  or  even  conscious  impression.  What 
merely  quickens  or  retards  the  blood  in  their  veins 
and  fills  their  afternoons  with  pleasure  they  know  not 
whence,  conveys  a  distinct  assurance  to  the  finer 
organization  of  the  poet. 

We  talk  of  genius  as  if  it  were  a  mere  knack,  and 
the  poet  could  only  express  what  other  men  con- 
ceived. But  in  comparison  with  his  task  the  poet  is 
the  least  talented  of  any;  the  writer  of  prose  has 
more  skill.  See  what  talent  the  smith  has.  His  ma- 
terial is  pliant  in  his  hands.  Wlien  the  poet  is  most 
inspired,  is  stimulated  by  an  aura  which  never  even 
colors  the  afternoons  of  common  men,  then  his  talent 
is  all  gone,  and  he  is  no  longer  a  poet.  The  gods  do 
not  grant  him  any  skill  more  than  another.  They 
never  put  their  gifts  into  his  hands,  but  they  encom- 
pass and  sustain  him  with  their  breath. 

To  say  that  God  has  given  a  man  many  and  great 
talents,  frequently  means,  that  he  has  brought  his 
heavens  down  within  reach  of  his  hands. 

W^hen  the  poetic  frenzy  seizes  us,  we  run  and 
scratch  with  our  pen,  intent  only  on  worms.  calHng  our 
mates  around  us.  like  the  cock,  and  delighting  in  the 
dust  we  make,  but  do  not  detect  where  the  jewel  lies, 
which,  perhaps,  we  have  in  the  meantime  cast  to  a 
distance,  or  quite  covered  up  again. 

The  poet's  body  even  is  not  fed  simply  like  other 
men's,  but  he  sometimes  tastes  the  genuine  nectar 
and  ambrosia  of  the  gods,  and  lives  a  divine  life.  By 
the  healthful  and  invigorating  thrills  of  inspiration  his 
life  is  preserved  to  a  serene  old  age. 

Some  poems  are  for  holidays  only.  They  are  pol- 
ished and  sweet,  but  it  is  the  sweetness  of  sugar,  and 


i 


FRIDA  Y.  347 

not  such  as  toil  gives  to  sour  bread.  The  breath 
with  which  the  poet  utters  his  verse  must  be  that  by 
which  he  lives. 

Great  prose,  of  equal  elevation,  commands  our 
respect  more  than  great  verse,  since  it  implies  a  more 
permanent  and  level  height,  a  hfe  more  pervaded 
with  the  grandeur  of  the  thought.  The  poet  often 
only  makes  an  irruption,  like  a  Parthian,  and  is 
off  again,  shooting  while  he  retreats  ;  but  the  prose 
wTiter  has  conquered  like  a  Roman,  and  settled  col- 
onies. 

The  true  poem  is  not  that  which  the  public  read. 
There  is  always  a  poem  not  printed  on  paper,  coinci- 
dent with  the  production  of  this,  stereotyped  in  the 
poet's  life.  It  is  w/iat  he  has  becouie  through  his 
wo7'k.  Not  how  is  the  idea  expressed  in  stone,  or  on 
canvas  or  paper,  is  the  question,  but  how  fai;  it  has 
obtained  form  and  expression  in  the  life  of  the  artist. 
His  true  work  will  not  stand  in  any  prince's  gallery. 

My  life  has  been  the  poem  I  would  have  writ, 
But  I  could  not  both  live  and  utter  it. 

THE  POET'S  DELAY. 

In  vain  I  see  the  morning  rise, 
In  vain  observe  the  western  blaze, 

Who  idly  look  to  other  skies, 
Expecting  life  by  other  ways. 

Amidst  such  boundless  wealth  without, 

I  only  still  am  poor  within, 
The  birds  have  sung  their  summer  out, 

But  still  my  spring  does  not  begin. 

Shall  I  then  wait  the  autumn  wind, 
Compelled  to  seek  a  milder  day, 


348    ./    WEEK   ox   THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

And  leave  no  curious  nest  behind, 
No  woods  still  echoing  to  my  lay? 

This  raw  and  gusty  day,  and  the  creaking  of  the 
oaks  and  pines  on  shore,  reminded  us  of  more  north- 
ern climes  than  Greece,  and  more  wintry  seas  than 
the  ^gean. 

The  genuine  remains  of  Ossian,  or  those  ancient 
poems  which  bear  his  name,  though  of  less  fame  and 
extent,  are,  in  many  respects,  of  the  same  stamp  with 
the  Iliad  itself.  He  asserts  the  dignity  of  the  bard  no 
less  than  Homer,  and  in  his  era  we  hear  of  no  other 
priest  than  he.  It  will  not  avail  to  call  him  a  heathen, 
because  he  personifies  the  sun  and  addresses  it ;  and 
what  if  his  heroes  did  '•'  worship  the  ghosts  of  their 
fathers,"  their  thin,  airy,  and  unsubstantial  forms? 
we  but  worship  the  ghosts  of  our  fathers  in  more  sub- 
stantial forms.  We  cannot  but  respect  the  vigorous 
faith  of  those  heathen,  who  sternly  believed  some- 
what, and  we  are  incHned  to  say  to  the  critics,  who 
are  offended  by  their  superstitious  rites,  —  Don't  in- 
terrupt these  men's  prayers.  As  if  we  knew  more 
about  human  Mife  and  a  God.  than  the  heathen  and 
ancients.  Does  English  theology  contain  the  recent 
discoveries? 

Ossian  reminds  us  of  the  most  refined  and  rudest 
eras,  of  Homer.  Pindar,  Isaiah,  and  the  American 
Indian.  In  his  poetry,  as  in  Homer's,  only  the  sim- 
plest and  most  enduring  features  of  humanity  are 
seen,  such  essential  parts  of  a  man  as  Stonehenge  ex- 
hibits of  a  temple ;  we  see  the  circles  of  stone,  and 
the  upright  shaft  alone.  The  phenomena  of  life  ac- 
quire almost  an  unreal  and  gigantic  size  seen  through 
his  mists.     Like  all  older  and  grander  poetry,  it  is 


FRTDA  Y.  349 

distinguished  by  the  few  elements  in  the  lives  of  its 
heroes.  They  stand  on  the  heath,  between  the  stars 
and  the  earth,  shrunk  to  the  bones  and  sinews.  The 
earth  is  a  boundless  plain  for  their  deeds.  They  lead 
such  a  simple,  dry,  and  everlasting  life,  as  hardly 
needs  depart  with  the  flesh,  but  is  transmitted  en- 
tire from  age  to  age.  There  are  but  few  objects  to 
distract  their  sight,  and  their  life  is  as  unincumbered 
as  the  course  of  the  stars  they  gaze  at.  — 

"  The  wrathful  kings,  on  cairns  apart, 
Look  forward  from  behind  their  shields, 
And  mark  the  wandering  stars, 
That  brilliant  westward  move." 

It  does  not  cost  much  for  these  heroes  to  live ;  they 
do  not  want  much  furniture.  They  are  such  forms 
of  men  only  as  can  be  seen  afar  through  the  mist, 
and  have  no  costume  nor  dialect,  but  for  language 
there  is  the  tongue  itself,  and  for  costume  there  are 
always  the  skins  of  beasts  and  the  bark  of  trees  to 
be  had.  They  live  out  their  years  by  the  vigor  of 
their  constitutions.  They  survive  storms  and  the 
spears  of  their  foes,  and  perform  a  few  heroic  deeds, 
and  then, 

"  Mounds  will  answer  questions  of  them. 
For  many  future  years." 

Blind  and  infirm,  they  spend  the  remnant  of  their 
days  listening  to  the  lays  of  the  bards,  and  feeling 
the  weapons  which  laid  their  enemies  low,  and  when 
at  length  they  die,  by  a  convulsion  of  nature,  the  bard 
allows  us  a  short  and  misty  glance  into  futurity,  yet 
as  clear,  perchance,  as  their  lives  had  been.  When 
Mac-Koine  was  slain, 


350    J    IVEEK    OX   THE    COXCORD    RIVER. 

"  His  soul  departed  to  his  warlike  sires, 
To  follow  misty  forms  of  boars. 
In  tempestuous  islands  bleak." 

The  hero's  cairn  is  erected,  and  the  bard  sings  a  brief 
significant  strain,  which  will  suffice  for  epitaph  and 
biography. 

"The  weak  will  find  his  bow  in  the  dwelling, 
The  feeble  will  attempt  to  bend  it." 

Compared  with  this  simple,  fibrous  life,  our  civil- 
ized history  appears  the  chronicle  of  debility,  of  fash- 
ion, and  the  arts  of  luxury.  But  the  civilized  man 
misses  no  real  refinement  in  the  poetry  of  the  rudest 
era.  It  reminds  him  that  civilization  does  but  dress 
men.  It  makes  shoes,  but  it  does  not  toughen  the 
soles  of  the  feet.  It  makes  cloth  of  finer  texture,  but 
it  does  not  touch  the  skin.  Inside  the  civilized  man 
stands  the  savage  still  in  the  place  of  honor.  We 
are  those  blue-eyed,  yellow-haired  Saxons,  those  slen- 
der, dark-haired  Normans. 

The  profession  of  the  bard  attracted  more  respect 
in  those  days  from  the  importance  attached  to  fame. 
It  was  his  province  to  record  the  deeds  of  heroes. 
When  Ossian  hears  the  traditions  of  inferior  bards,  he 
exclaims,  — 

"  I  straightway  seize  the  unfutile  tales, 
And  send  them  down  in  faithful  verse." 

His  philosophy  of  life  is  expressed  in  the  opening  of 
the  third  Duan  of  Ca-Lodin. 

"Whence  have  sprung  the  things  that  are  ? 
And  whither  roll  the  passing  years  ? 
Where  does  Time  conceal  its  two  heads, 


FRIDAY,  351 

In  dense  impenetrable  gloom, 

Its  surface  marked  with  heroes'  deeds  aione  ? 

I  view  the  generations  gone; 

The  past  appears  but  dim  ; 

As  objects  by  the  moon's  faint  beams, 

Reflected  from  a  distant  lake.  * 

I  see,  indeed,  the  thunderbolts  of  war, 

But  there  the  unmighty  joyless  dwell, 

All  those  who  send  not  down  their  deeds 

To  far,  succeeding  times." 

The  ignoble  warriors  die  and  are  forgotten ; 

"Strangers  come  to  build  a  tower, 
And  throw  their  ashes  overhand ; 
Some  rusted  swords  appear  in  dust ; 
One,  bending  forward,  says, 
'  The  arms  belonged  to  heroes  gone ; 
We  never  heard  their  praise  in  song.'  " 

The  grandeur  of  the  similes  is  another  feature  which 
characterizes  great  poetry.  Ossian  seems  to  speak  a 
gigantic  and  universal  language.  The  images  and 
pictures  occupy  even  much  space  in  the  landscape,  as 
if  they  could  be  seen  only  from  the  sides  of  moun- 
tains, and  plains  with  a  wide  horizon,  or  across  arms 
of  the  sea.  The  machinery  is  so  massive  that  it  can- 
not be  less  than  natural.  Oivana  says  to  the  spirit 
of  her  father,  '•  Grey-haired  Torkil  of  Torne,"  seen 
in  the  skies, 

"  Thou  glidest  away  Hke  receding  ships." 

So  when  the  hosts  of  Fingal  and  Starne  approach  to 
battle, 

"With  murmurs  loud,  like  rivers  far, 
The  race  of  Tome  hither  moved." 


352    --/  WEEK   OX   THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

And  when  compelled  to  retire. 

"  dragging  his  speai  behind, 

Cudulin  sank  in  the  distant  wood, 
,  Like  a  fire  upblazing  ere  it  dies." 

Nor  did  Fingal  want  a  proper  audience  when  he  spoke  : 

"A  thousand  orators  inclined 
To  hear  the  lay  of  Fingal." 

The  threats  too  would  have  deterred  a  man.  Ven- 
geance and  terror  were  real.  Trenmore  threatens  the 
young  warrior  whom  he  meets  on  a  foreign  strand,, 

"  Thy  mother  shall  find  thee  pale  on  the  shore, 
While  lessening  on  the  waves  she  spies 
The  sails  of  him  who  slew  her  son." 

If  Ossian's  heroes  weep,  it  is  from  excess  of  strength, 
and  not  from  weakness,  a  sacrifice  or  libation  of  fer- 
tile natures,  like  the  perspiration  of  stone  in  summers 
heat.  We  hardly  know  that  tears  have  been  shed, 
and  it  seems  as  if  weeping  were  proper  only  for  babes 
and  heroes.  Their  joy  and  their  sorrow  are  mad 2 
of  one  stuff,  like  rain  and  snow,  the  rainbow  and  the 
mist.  When  Fillan  was  worsted  in  fight,  and  ashamed 
in  the  presence  of  Fingal. 

"  He  strode  away  forthwith, 
And  bent  in  grief  above  a  stream. 
His  cheeks  bedewed  with  tears. 
Yxovtx  time  to  time  the  thistles  gray 
He  lopped  with  his  inverted  lance." 

Crodar,  blind  and  old.  receives  Ossian,  son  of  Fingal, 
who  comes  to  aid  him  in  war;  — 


FRIDAY.  353 

"  '  My  eyes  have  failed,"  says  he,  '  Crodar  is  blind, 
Is  thy  strength  like  that  of  thy  fathers  ? 
Stretch,  Ossian,  thine  arm  to  the  hoary-haired.' 

I  gave  my  arm  to  the  king. 
The  aged  hero  seized  my  hand ; 
He  heaved  a  heavy  sigh ; 
Tears  flowed  incessant  down  his  cheek. 
'  Strong  art  thou,  son  of  the  mighty, 
Though  not  so  dreadful  as  Morven's  prince.  *  *  * 
Let  my  feast  be  spread  in  the  hall, 
Let  every  sweet-voiced  minstrel  sing; 
Great  is  he  who  is  within  my  wall. 
Sons  of  wave-echoing  Croma.'  " 

Even  Ossian  himself,  the  hero-bard,  pays  tribute  to 
the  superior  strength  of  his  father  Fingal. 

"  How  beauteous,  mighty  man,  was  thy  mind. 
Why  succeeded  Ossian  without  its  strength  ?  " 


While  we  sailed  fleetly  before  the  wind,  with  the 
liver  gurgling  under  our  stern,  the  thoughts  of  au- 
tumn coursed  as  steadily  through  our  minds,  and  we 
observed  less  what  was  passing  on  the  shore,  than 
the  dateless  associations  and  impressions  which  the 
season  awakened,  anticipating  in  some  measure  the 
progress  of  the  year.  — 

I  hearing  get,  who  had  but  ears. 

And  sight,  who  had  but  eyes  before, 
I  moments  live,  who  lived  but  years. 

And  truth  discern,  who  knew  but  learning's  lore. 

Sitting  with  our  faces  now  up  stream,  we  studied 
the  landscape  by  degrees,  as  one  unrolls  a  map,  —  rock, 
tree,  house,  hill,  and  meadow,  assuming  new  and 
varying  positions  as  wind  and  water  shifted  the  scene, 
and  there  was  variety  enough  for  our  entertainment 


354    -^    yVEEK   ON   THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

in  the  metamorphoses  of  the  simplest  objects.  Viewed 
from  this  side  the  scenery  appeared  new  to  us. 

The  most  famihar  sheet  of  water  viewed  from  a 
new  hill-top,  yields  a  novel  and  unexpected  pleasure. 
When  we  have  travelled  a  few  miles,  we  do  not  recog- 
nize the  profiles  even  of  the  hills  which  overlook  our 
native  village,  and  perhaps  no  man  is  quite  familiar 
with  the  horizon  as  seen  from  the  hill  nearest  to  his 
house,  and  can  recall  its  outline  distinctly  when  in  the 
valley.  We  do  not  commonly  know,  beyond  a  short 
distance,  which  way  the  hills  range  which  take  in  our 
houses  and  farms  in  their  sweep.  As  if  our  birth  had 
at  first  sundered  things,  and  we  had  been  thrust  up 
through  into  nature  like  a  wedge,  and  not  till  the 
wound  heals  and  the  scar  disappears,  do  we  begin  to 
discover  where  we  are,  and  that  nature  is  one  and 
continuous  everywhere.  It  is  an  important  epoch 
when  a  man  who  has  always  lived  on  the  east  side  of 
a  mountain  and  seen  it  in  the  west,  travels  round  and 
sees  it  in  the  east.  Yet  the  universe  is  a  sphere  whose 
center  is  wherever  there  is  intelligence.  The  sun  is 
not  so  central  as  a  man.  Upon  an  isolated  hill-top, 
in  an  open  country,  we  seem  to  ourselves  to  be  stand- 
ing on  the  boss  of  an  immense  shield,  the  immediate 
landscape  being  apparently  depressed  below  the  more 
remote,  and  rising  gradually  to  the  horizon,  which  is 
the  rim  of  the  shield,  villas,  steeples,  forests,  moun- 
tains, one  above  another,  till  they  are  swallowed  up 
in  the  heavens.  The  most  distant  mountains  appear 
to  rise  directly  from  the  shore  of  that  lake  in  the 
woods  by  which  we  chance  to  be  standing,  while  from 
the  mountain  top,  not  only  this,  but  a  thousand  nearer 
and  larger  lakes,  are  equally  unobserved. 

Seen  through  this  clear  atmosphere,  the  works  of 


FRIDAY.  355 

the  farmer,  his  plowing  and  reaping,  had  a  beauty  to 
our  eyes  which  he  never  saw.  How  fortunate  were 
we  who  did  not  own  an  acre  of  these  shores,  who  had 
not  renounced  our  title  to  the  whole.  One  who  knew 
how  to  appropriate  the  true  value  of  this  world  would 
be  the  poorest  man  in  it.  The  poor  rich  man!  all  he 
has  is  what  he  has  bought.  What  I  see  is  mine.  I 
am  a  large  owner  in  the  Merrimack  intervals.  — 

Men  dig  and  dive  but  cannot  my  wealth  spend, 
Who  yet  no  partial  store  appropriate, 

Who  no  armed  ship  into  the  Indies  send. 
To  rob  me  of  my  orient  estate. 

He  is  the  rich  man,  and  enjoys  the  fruits  of  riches, 
who  summer  and  winter  forever  can  find  delight  in 
his  own  thoughts.  Buy  a  farm!  What  have  I  to  pay 
for  a  farm  which  a  farmer  will  take  ? 

When  I  visit  again  some  haunt  of  my  youth,  I  am 
glad  to  find  that  nature  wears  so  well.  The  land- 
scape is  indeed  something  real,  and  soHd,  and  sincere, 
and  I  have  not  put  my  foot  through  it  yet.  There  is 
a  pleasant  tract  on  the  bank  of  the  Concord,  called 
Conantum,  which  I  have  in  my  mind  ;  —  the  old  de- 
serted farm-house,  the  desolate  pasture  with  its  bleak 
cliff,  the  open  wood,  the  river-reach,  the  green  meadow 
in  the  midst,  and  the  moss-grown  wild-apple  orchard, 
—  places  where  one  may  have  many  thoughts  and 
not  decide  anything.  It  is  a  scene  which  I  can 
not  only  remember,  as  I  might  a  vision,  but  when 
I  will  can  bodily  revisit,  and  find  it  even  so,  un- 
accountable, yet  unpretending  in  its  pleasant  dreari- 
ness. When  my  thoughts  are  sensible  of  change,  I 
love  to  see  and  sit  on  rocks  which  I  have  known,  and 
pry  into  their  moss,  and  see   unchangeableness  so 


356    A    WEEK   OX   THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

established.  I  not  yet  gray  on  rocks  forever  gray, 
I  no  longer  green  under  the  evergreens.  There  is 
something  even  in  the  lapse  of  time  by  which  time 
recovers  itself. 

As  we  have  said,  it  proved  a  cool  as  well  as  breezy 
day,  and  by  the  time  we  reached  Penichook  Brook, 
we  were  obliged  to  sit  muffled  in  our  cloaks,  while  the 
wind  and  current  carried  us  along.  We  bounded 
swiftly  over  the  rippling  surface,  far  by  many  culti- 
vated lands  and  the  ends  of  fences  which  divided 
innumerable  farms,  with  hardly  a  thought  for  the 
various  lives  which  they  separated ;  now  by  long  rows 
of  alders  or  groves  of  pines  or  oaks,  and  now  by  some 
homestead  where  the  women  and  children  stood  out- 
side to  gaze  at  us,  till  we  had  swept  out  of  their  sight, 
and  beyond  the  limit  of  their  longest  Saturday  ram- 
ble. We  glided  past  the  mouth  of  the  Nashua,  and 
not  long  after,  of  Salmon  Brook,  without  more  pause 
than  the  wind.  — 

Salmon  Brook, 
Penichook, 
Ye  sweet  waters  of  my  brain. 
When  shall  I  look, 
Or  cast  the  hook, 
In  your  waves  again  ? 

Silver  eels. 
Wooden  creels, 
These  the  baits  that  still  allure, 
And  dragon-fly 
That  floated  by,  — 
May  they  still  endure  ? 

The  shadows  chased  one  another  swiftly  over  wood 
and  meadow,  and  their  alternation  harmonized  with 
our  mood.     We  could  distinguish  the  clouds  which 


FRIDAY.  357 

cast  each  one,  though  never  so  high  in  the  heavens. 
When  a  shadow  flits  across  the  landscape  of  the  soul, 
where  is  the  substance?  Probably,  if  we  were  wise 
enough,  we  should  see  to  what  virtue  we  are  indebted 
for  an)^  happier  moment  we  enjoy.  No  doubt  we 
have  earned  it  at  some  time ;  for  the  gifts  of  Heaven 
are  never  quite  gratuitous.  The  constant  abrasion 
and  decay  of  our  lives  makes  the  soil  of  our  future 
growth.  The  wood  which  we  now  mature,  when  it 
becomes  virgin  mould,  determines  the  character  of 
our  second  growth,  whether  that  be  oaks  or  pines. 
Every  man  casts  a  shadow ;  not  his  body  only,  but 
his  imperfectly  mingled  spirit;  this  is  his  grief;  let 
him  turn  which  way  he  will,  it  falls  opposite  to  the 
sun  ;  short  at  noon,  long  at  eve.  Did  you  never  see 
it  ?  —  But,  referred  to  the  sun,  it  is  widest  at  its  base, 
which  is  no  greater  than  his  own  opacity.  The 
divine  light  is  diffused  almost  entirely  around  us, 
and  by  means  of  the  reflection  of  light,  or  else  by  a 
certain  self-luminousness,  or,  as  some  will  have  it, 
transparency,  if  we  preserve  ourselves  untarnished, 
we  are  able  to  enlighten  our  shaded  side.  At  any 
rate,  our  darkest  grief  has  that  bronze  color  of  the 
moon  eclipsed.  There  is  no  ill  which  may  not  be 
dissipated,  like  the  dark,  if  you  let  in  a  stronger  light 
upon  it.  Shadows,  referred  to  the  source  of  light,  are 
pyramids  whose  bases  are  never  greater  than  those  of 
the  substances  which  cast  them,  but  light  is  a  spheri- 
cal congeries  of  pyramids,  whose  very  apexes  are  the 
sun  itself,  and  hence  the  system  shines  with  uninter- 
rupted light.  But  if  the  light  we  use  is  but  a  paltry 
and  narrow  taper,  most  objects  will  cast  a  shadow 
wider  than  themselves. 

The  places  where  we  had  stopped  or  spent  the 


358    A    WEEK   ON    THE   CONCORD   RIVER. 

night  in  our  way  up  the  river,  had  already  acquired 
a  slight  historical  interest  for  us  ;  for  many  upward 
days'  voyaging  were  unravelled  in  this  rapid  down- 
ward passage.  When  one  landed  to  stretch  his  limbs 
by  walking,  he  soon  found  himself  falling  behind  his 
companion,  and  was  obliged  to  take  advantage  of  the 
curves,  and  ford  the  brooks  and  ravines  in  haste,  to 
recover  his  ground.  Already  the  banks  and  the 
distant  meadows  wore  a  sober  and  deepened  tinge, 
for  the  September  air  had  shorn  them  of  their  sum- 
mers pride.  — 

"  And  what 's  a  life?     The  flourishing  array 
Of  the  proud  summer  meadow,  which  to-day 
Wears  her  green  plush,  and  is  to-morrow  hay." 

The  air  was  really  the  "  fine  element ""  which  the  poets 
describe.  It  had  a  finer  and  sharper  grain,  seen 
against  the  russet  pastures  and  meadows,  than  before, 
as  if  cleansed  of  the  summer's  impurities. 

Having  passed  the  New  Hampshire  line  and  reached 
the  Horseshoe  Interval  in  Tyngsboro\  where  there 
is  a  high  and  regular  second  bank,  we  climbed  up 
this  in  haste  to  get  a  nearer  sight  of  the  autumnal 
flowers,  asters,  golden-rod,  and  yarrow,  and  the  tri- 
chosteina  dichotoma^  humble  road-side  blossoms,  and, 
lingering  still,  the  harebell  and  the  rhexia  Virginica. 
The  last,  growing  in  patches  of  lively  pink  flowers  on 
the  edge  of  the  meadow^s,  had  almost  too  gay  an 
appearance  for  the  rest  of  the  landscape,  like  a  pink 
ribbon  on  the  bonnet  of  a  Puritan  woman.  Asters 
and  golden-rods  were  the  livery  which  nature  wore  at 
present.  The  latter  alone  expressed  all  the  ripeness 
of  the  season,  and  shed  their  mellow  lustre  over  the 
fields,  as  if  the  now  declining  summer's  sun  had  be- 


FRIDAY.  359 

queathed  its  hues  to  them.  It  is  the  floral  solstice  a 
little  after  mid-summer,  when  the  particles  of  golden 
light,  the  sun-dust,  have,  as  it  were,  fallen  like  seeds 
on  the  earth,  and  produced  these  blossoms.  On 
every  hill-side,  and  in  every  valley,  stood  countless 
asters,  coreopses,  tansies,  golden-rods,  and  the  whole 
race  of  yellow  flowers,  like  Brahminical  devotees, 
turning  steadily  with  their  luminary  from  morning  till 
night. 

"  I  see  the  golden-rod  shine  bright, 
As  sun-showers  at  the  birth  of  day, 
A  golden  plume  of  yellow  light, 
That  robs  the  Day-god's  splendid  ray. 

"  The  aster's  violet  rays  divide 

The  bank  with  many  stars  for  me, 
And  yarrow  in  blanch  tints  is  dyed. 
As  moonlight  floats  across  the  sea. 

"  I  see  the  emerald  woods  prepare 
To  shed  their  vestiture  once  more. 
And  distant  elm-trees  spot  the  air 
With  yellow  pictures  softly  o'er.  *  * 

*'  No  more  the  water-lily's  pride 

In  milk-white  circles  swims  content. 
No  more  the  blue-weed's  clusters  ride 
And  mock  the  heaven's  element,  *  * 

"Autumn,  thy  wreath  and  mine  are  blent 
With  the  same  colors,  for  to  me 
A  richer  sky  than  all  is  lent. 

While  fades  my  dream-like  company. 

"  Our  skies  glow  purple,  but  the  wind 

Sobs  chill  through  green  trees  and  bright  grass, 
To-day  shines  fair,  and  lurk  behind 
The  times  that  into  winter  pass. 


360    A    WEEK   ON   THE    CONCORD  RIVER. 

"  So  fair  we  seem,  so  cold  we  are, 
So  fast  we  hasten  to  decay, 
Yet  through  our  night  glows  many  a  star. 
That  still  shall  claim  its  sunny  day." 

So  sang  a  Concord  poet  once. 

There  is  a  peculiar  interest  belonging  to  the  still 
later  flowers,  which  abide  with  us  the  approach  of 
winter.  There  is  something  witch-like  in  the  appear- 
ance of  the  witch-hazel,  which  blossoms  late  in  Octo- 
ber and  in  November,  with  its  irregular  and  angular 
spray  and  petals  like  furies'  hair,  or  small  ribbon 
streamers.  Its  blossoming,  too,  at  this  irregular 
period,  when  other  shrubs  have  lost  their  leaves,  as 
well  as  blossoms,  looks  like  witches'  craft.  Certainly 
it  blooms  in  no  garden  of  man's.  There  is  a  whole 
fairy-land  on  the  hill-side  where  it  grows. 

Some  have  thought  that  the  gales  do  not  at  present 
waft  to  the  voyager  the  natural  and  original  fra- 
grance of  the  land,  such  as  the  early  navigators 
described,  and  that  the  loss  of  many  odoriferous 
native  plants,  sweet-scented  grasses  and  medicinal 
herbs,  which  formerly  sweetened  the  atmosphere,  and 
rendered  it  salubrious,  by  the  grazing  of  cattle  and 
the  rooting  of  swine,  is  the  source  of  many  diseases 
which  now  prevail ;  the  earth,  say  they,  having  been 
long  subjected  to  extremely  artificial  and  luxurious 
modes  of  cultivation,  to  gratify  the  appetite,  con- 
verted into  a  stye  and  hot-bed,  where  men  for  profit 
increase  the  ordinary  decay  of  nature. 

According  to  the  record  of  an  old  inhabitant  of 
Tyngsboro',  now  dead,  whose  farm  we  were  now  glid- 
ing past,  one  of  the  greatest  freshets  on    this    river 


FRIDAY.  361 

took  place  in  October,  1785,  and  its  height  was 
marked  by  a  nail  driven  into  an  apple  tree  behind 
his  house.  One  of  his  descendants  has  shown  this 
to  me,  and  I  judged  it  to  be  at  least  seventeen  or 
eighteen  feet  above  the  level  of  the  river  at  the 
time.  Before  the  Lowell  and  Nashua  railroad  was 
built,  the  engineer  made  inquiries  of  the  inhabitants 
along  the  banks  as  to  how  high  they  had  known  the 
river  to  rise.  When  he  came  to  this  house  he  was 
conducted  to  the  apple  tree,  and  as  the  nail  was  not 
then  visible,  the  lady  of  the  house  placed  her  hand 
on  the  tnmk  where  she  said  that  she  remembered 
the  nail  to  have  been  from  her  childhood.  In  the 
meanwhile  the  old  man  put  his  arm  inside  the  tree, 
which  was  hollow,  and  felt  the  point  of  the  nail 
sticking  through,  and  it  was  exactly  opposite  to  her 
hand.  The  spot  is  now  plainly  marked  by  a  notch 
in  the  bark.  But  as  no  one  else  remembered  the 
river  to  have  risen  so  high  as  this,  the  engineer  disre- 
garded this  statement,  and  I  learn  that  there  has 
since  been  a  freshet  which  rose  within  nine  inches 
of  the  rails  at  Biscuit  Brook,  and  such  a  freshet  as 
that  of  1785  would  have  covered  the  railroad  two 
feet  deep. 

The  revolutions  of  nature  tell  as  fine  tales,  and 
make  as  interesting  revelations,  on  this  river^s  banks, 
as  on  the  Euphrates  or  the  Nile.  This  apple  tree, 
which  stands  within  a  few  rods  of  the  river,  is  called 
•'  Elisha's  apple  tree,"  from  a  friendly  Indian,  who 
was  anciently  in  the  service  of  Jonathan  Tyng,  and, 
with  one  other  man,  was  killed  here  by  his  own 
race  in  one  of  the  Indian  wars,  —  the  particulars  of 
which  affair  were  told  us  on  the  spot.  He  was 
iiried  close   by,    no   one    knew    exactly    where,    but 


362    A   WEEK   ON   THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

in  the  flood  of  1785,  so  great  a  weight  of  water 
standing  over  the  grave,  caused  the  earth  to  settle 
where  it  had  once  been  disturbed,  and  when  the 
flood  went  down,  a  sunken  spot,  exactly  of  the  form 
and  size  of  the  grave,  revealed  its  locality,  but  this 
w^as  now  lost  again,  and  no  future  flood  can  detect 
it;  yet,  no  doubt,  Nature  will  know  how  to  point  it 
out  in  due  time,  if  it  be  necessary,  by  methods  yet 
more  searching  and  unexpected.  Thus  there  is  not 
only  the  crisis  when  the  spirit  ceases  to  inspire  and 
expand  the  body,  marked  by  a  fresh  mound  in  the 
church-yard,  but  there  is  also  a  crisis  when  the  body 
ceases  to  take  up  room  as  such  in  nature,  marked  by  a 
fainter  depression  in  the  earth. 

We  sat  awhile  to  rest  us  here  upon  the  brink  of 
the  w^estern  bank,  surrounded  by  the  glossy  leaves 
of  the  red  variety  of  the  mountain  laurel,  just  above 
the  head  of  Wicasuck  Island,  where  we  could  observe 
some  scows  which  were  loading  with  clay  from  the 
opposite  shore,  and  also  overlook  the  grounds  of 
the  farmer,  of  whom  I  have  spoken,  who  once  hos- 
pitably entertained  us  for  a  night.  He  had  on  his 
pleasant  farm,  besides  an  abundance  of  the  beach- 
plum,  or  pntiius  UttoraliSj  which  grew  wild,  the 
Canada  plum  under  cultivation,  fine  Porter  apples, 
some  peaches,  and  large  patches  of  musk  and  water 
melons,  which  he  cultivated  for  the  Lowell  market. 
Elisha's  apple  tree,  too,  bore  a  native  fruit,  which 
was  prized  by  the  family.  He  raised  the  blood  peach, 
which,  as  he  showed  us  with  .satisfaction,  was  more 
like  the  oak  in  the  color  of  its  bark  and  in  the  setting 
of  its  branches,  and  was  less  liable  to  break  down 
under  the  weight  of  the  fruit,  or  the  snow,  than 
other  varieties.     It    was   of  slower  growth,  and  its 


FRIDA  V.  363 

branches  strong  and  tough.  There,  also,  was  his 
nursery  of  native  apple  trees,  thickly  set  upon  the 
bank,  which  cost  but  little  care,  and  which  he  sold 
to  the  neighboring  farmers  when  they  were  five  or 
six  years  old.  To  see  a  single  peach  upon  its  stem 
makes  an  impression  of  paradisaical  fertility  and 
luxury.  This  reminded  us  even  of  an  old  Roman 
farm,  as  described  by  Varro :  "  Caesar  Vopiscus 
/Edilicius,  when  he  pleaded  before  the  Censors,  said 
that  the  grounds  of  Rosea  were  the  garden  {siuneji 
the  tid-bit)  of  Italy,  in  which  a  pole  being  left 
would  not  be  visible  the  day  after,  on  account  of 
the  growth  of  the  herbage."  This  soil  may  not 
have  been  remarkably  fertile,  yet  at  this  distance 
we  thought  that  this  anecdote  might  be  told  of  the 
Tyngsboro'  farm. 

When  we  passed  Wicasuck  Island,  there  was  a 
pleasure  boat  containing  a  youth  and  a  maiden  on  the 
island  brook,  which  we  were  pleased  to  see,  since  it 
proved  that  there  were  some  hereabouts  to  whom  our 
excursions  would  not  be  wholly  strange.  Before  this, 
a  canal-boatman,  of  whom  we  made  some  inquiries 
respecting  Wicasuck  Island,  and  who  told  us  that 
it  was  disputed  property,  supposed  that  we  had  a 
claim  upon  it,  and  though  we  assured  him  that  all 
this  was  news  to  us,  and  explained,  as  well  as  we 
could,  why  we  had  come  to  see  it,  he  believed  not 
a  word  of  it,  and  seriously  offered  us  one  hundred 
dollars  for  our  title.  The  only  other  small  boats 
which  we  met  with  were  used  to  pick  up  drift- 
wood. Some  of  the  poorer  class  along  the  stream 
collect,  in  this  way,  all  the  fuel  which  they  require. 
While  one  of  us  landed  not  far  from  this  island  to 
forage  for  provisions  among   the  farm-houses  whose 


364    ^    WEEK   OX   THE    CONCORD  RIVER. 

roofs  we  saw,  for  our  supply  was  now  exhausted,  the 
other,  sitting  in  the  boat,  which  was  moored  to  the 
shore,  was  left  alone  to  his  reflections. 

If  there  is  nothing  new  on  the  earth,  still  the  trav- 
eller always  has  a  resource  in  the  skies.  They  are 
constantly  turning  a  new  page  to  view.  The  wind 
sets  the  types  on  this  blue  ground,  and  the  in- 
quiring may  always  read  a  new  truth  there.  There 
are  things  there  written  with  such  fine  and  subtil 
tinctures,  paler  than  the  juice  of  limes,  that  to  the 
diurnal  eye  they  leave  no  trace,  and  only  the  chem- 
istry of  night  reveals  them.  Every  man's  daylight 
firmament  answers  in  his  mind  to  the  brightness  of 
the  vision  in  his  starriest  hour. 

These  continents  and  hemispheres  are  soon  run 
over,  but  an  always  unexplored  and  infinite  region 
makes  off  on  every  side  from  the  mind,  further  than 
to  sunset,  and  we  can  make  no  highway  or  beaten 
track  into  it,  but  the  grass  immediately  springs  up  in 
the  path,  for  we  travel  there  chiefly  with  our  wings. 

Sometimes  we  see  objects  as  through  a  thin  haze, 
in  their  eternal  relations,  and  they  stand  like  Palen- 
que  and  the  Pyramids,  and  we  wonder  who  set  them 
up,  and  for  what  purpose.  If  we  see  the  reality  in 
things,  of  what  moment  is  the  superficial  and  ap- 
parent longer?  What  are  the  earth  and  all  its  in- 
terests beside  the  deep  surmise  which  pierces  and 
scatters  them?  While  I  sit  here  listening  to  the 
waves  which  ripple  and  break  on  this  shore,  I  am 
absolved  from  all  obligation  to  the  past,  and  the 
council  of  nations  may  reconsider  its  votes.  The 
grating  of  a  pebble  annuls  them.  Still  occasionally 
in  my  dreams  I  remember  that  rippling  water.  — 


FRIDA  V.  365 

Oft,  as  I  turn  me  on  my  pillow  o'er, 
I  hear  the  lapse  of  waves  upon  the  shore, 
Distinct  as  if  it  were  at  broad  noon-day, 
And  I  were  drifting  down  from  Nashua, 

With  a  bending  sail  we  glided  rapidly  by  Tyngs- 
boro'  and  Chelmsford,  each  holding  in  one  hand 
half  of  a  tart  country  apple-pie  which  we  had  pur- 
chased to  celebrate  our  return,  and  in  the  other  a 
fragment  of  the  newspaper  in  which  it  was  wrapped, 
devouring  these  with  divided  relish,  and  learning  the 
news  which  had  transpired  since  we  sailed.  The 
river  here  opened  into  a  broad  and  straight  reach  of 
great  length,  which  we  bounded  merrily  over  before 
a  smacking  breeze,  with  a  devil-may-care  look  in  our 
faces,  and  our  boat  a  white  bone  in  its  mouth,  and 
a  speed  which  greatly  astonished  some  scow  boatmen 
whom  we  met.  The  wind  in  the  horizon  rolled 
like  a  flood  over  valley  and  plain,  and  every  tree  bent 
to  the  blast,  and  the  mountains  like  school-boys 
turned  their  cheeks  to  it.  They  were  great  and  cur- 
rent motions,  the  flowing  sail,  the  running  stream,  the 
waving  tree,  the  roving  wind.  The  north  wind 
stepped  readily  into  the  harness  which  we  had  pro- 
vided, and  pulled  us  along  with  good  will.  Some- 
times we  sailed  as  gently  and  steadily  as  the  clouds 
overhead,  watching  the  receding  shores  and  the 
motions  of  our  sail ;  the  play  of  its  pulse  so  like  our 
own  lives,  so  thin  and  yet  so  full  of  life,  so  noiseless 
when  it  labored  hardest,  so  noisy  and  impatient 
when  least  efl"ective ;  now  bending  to  some  generous 
impulse  of  the  breeze,  and  then  fluttering  and  flapping 
with  a  kind  of  human  suspense.  It  was  the  scale 
on  which  the  varying  temperature  of  distant  atmos- 
pheres was  graduated,  and    it  was  some    attraction 


366    A    WEEK   OX   THE    COXCORD   RIVER. 

for  us  that  the  breeze  it  played  with  had  been  out 
of  doors  so  long.  Thus  we  sailed,  not  being  able  to 
fly,  but  as  next  best,  making  a  long  furrow  in  the 
fields  of  the  Merrimack  toward  our  home,  with  our 
wings  spread,  but  never  lifting  our  heel  from  the 
watery  trench  ;  gracefully  plowing  homeward  with  our 
brisk  and  willing  team,  wind  and  stream,  pulling 
together,  the  former  yet  a  wild  steer,  yoked  to  his 
more  sedate  fellow.  It  was  very  near  flying,  as  when 
the  duck  rushes  through  the  water  with  an  impulse  of 
her  wings,  throwing  the  spray  about  her,  before  she 
can  rise.  How  we  had  stuck  fast  if  drawn  up  but 
a  few  feet  on  the  shore  I 

When  we  reached  the  great  bend  just  above  Mid- 
dlesex, where  the  river  runs  east  thirty-five  miles  to 
the  sea,  we  at  length  lost  the  aid  of  this  propitious 
wind,  though  we  contrived  to  make  one  long  and 
judicious  tack  carry  us  nearly  to  the  locks  of  the 
canal.  We  were  here  locked  through  at  noon  by  our 
old  friend,  the  lover  of  the  higher  mathematics,  who 
seemed  glad  to  see  us  safe  back  again  through  so 
many  locks ;  but  we  did  not  stop  to  consider  any 
of  his  problems,  though  we  could  cheerfully  have 
spent  a  whole  autumn  in  this  way  another  time,  and 
never  have  asked  what  his  religion  was.  It  is  so  rare 
to  meet  with  a  man  out-doors  who  cherishes  a  worthy 
thought  in  his  mind,  which  is  independent  of  the 
labor  of  his  hands.  Behind  every  man's  busy-ness 
there  should  be  a  level  of  undisturbed  serenity  and 
industr>',  as  within  the  reef  encircling  a  coral  isle 
there  is  always  an  expanse  of  still  water,  where  the 
depositions  are  going  on  which  will  finally  raise  it 
above  the  surface. 


FRIDA  V.  367 

The  eye  which  can  appreciate  the  naked  and  abso- 
kite  beauty  of  a  scientific  truth  is  far  more  rare  than 
that  which  is  attracted  by  a  moral  one.  Few  detect 
the  morality  in  the  former,  or  the  science  in  the  latter. 
Aristotle  defined  art  to  be  Aoyos  tov  epyov  avev  vXr]<; 
the  principle  of  the  work  without  the  wood :  but  most 
men  prefer  to  have  some  of  the  wood  along  with  the 
principle ;  they  demand  that  the  truth  be  clothed  in 
flesh  and  blood  and  the  warm  colors  of  life.  They 
prefer  the  partial  statement  because  it  fits  and  meas- 
ures them  and  their  commodities  best.  But  science 
still  exists  everywhere  as  the  sealer  of  weights  and 
measures  at  least. 

We  have  heard  much  about  the  poetry  of  mathe- 
matics, but  very  little  of  it  has  yet  been  sung.  The 
ancients  had  a  juster  notion  of  their  poetic  value  than 
we.  The  most  distinct  and  beautiful  statement  of 
any  tmth  must  take  at  last  the  mathematical  form. 
We  might  so  simplify  the  rules  of  moral  philosophy, 
as  well  as  of  arithmetic,  that  one  formula  would  ex- 
press them  both.  All  the  moral  laws  are  readily 
translated  into  natural  philosophy,  for  often  we  have 
only  to  restore  the  primitive  meaning  of  the  words  by 
which  they  are  expressed,  or  to  attend  to  their  literal 
instead  of  their  metaphorical  sense.  They  are  already 
supernatural  philosophy.  The  whole  body  of  what 
is  now  called  moral  or  ethical  truth  existed  in  the 
golden  age  as  abstract  science.  Or,  if  we  prefer,  we 
may  say  that  the  laws  of  Nature  are  the  purest  moral- 
ity. The  Tree  of  Knowledge  is  a  Tree  of  Knowledge 
of  good  and  evil.  He  is  not  a  true  man  of  science 
who  does  not  bring  some  sympathy  to  his  studies, 
and  expect  to  learn  something  by  behavior  as  well  as 
by  application.     It  is  childish  to  rest  in  the  discovery 


368    A    WEEK   OX   THE    COXCORD  RIVER. 

of  mere  coincidences,  or  of  partial  and  extraneous 
laws.  The  study  of  geometry  is  a  petty  and  idle 
exercise  of  the  mind,  if  it  is  applied  to  no  larger  sys- 
tem than  the  starry  one.  ^Iathematics  should  be 
mixed  not  only  with  physics  but  with  ethics,  that  is 
////.ivrtf  mathematics.  The  fact  which  interests  us  most 
is  the  life  of  the  naturalist.  The  purest  science  is 
still  biographical.  Nothing  will  dignify  and  elevate 
science  while  it  is  sundered  so  wholly  from  the  moral 
life  of  its  devotee,  and  he  professes  another  religion 
than  it  teaches,  and  worships  at  a  foreign  shrine. 
Anciently  the  faith  of  a  philosopher  was  identical 
with  his  system,  or,  in  other  words,  his  view  of  the 
universe. 

My  friends  mistake  when  they  communicate  facts 
to  me  with  so  much  pains.  Their  presence,  even 
their  exaggerations  and  loose  statements,  are  equally 
good  facts  for  me.  I  have  no  respect  for  facts  even 
except  when  I  would  use  them,  and  for  the  most  part 
I  am  independent  of  those  which  I  hear,  and  can 
afford  to  be  inaccurate,  or,  in  other  words,  to  sub- 
stitute more  present  and  pressing  facts  in  their 
place. 

The  poet  uses  the  results  of  science  and  philosophy, 
and  generalizes  their  widest  deductions. 

The  process  of  discovery  is  very  simple.  An  un- 
wearied and  systematic  application  of  known  laws  to 
nature,  causes  the  unknown  to  reveal  themselves. 
Almost  any  mode  of  observation  will  be  successful 
at  last,  for  what  is  most  wanted  is  method.  Only  let 
something  be  determined  and  fixed  around  which  ob- 
servation may  rally.  How  many  new  relations  a  foot- 
rule  alone  will  reveal,  and  to  how  many  things  still 
this  has  not  been  applied!     What  wonderful  discover- 


FRIDA  V.  369 

ies  have  been,  and  may  still  be,  made,  with  a  plumb- 
line,  a  level,  a  surveyor's  compass,  a  thermometer,  or 
a  barometer!  Where  there  is  an  observatory  and  a 
telescope,  we  expect  that  any  eyes  will  see  new  worlds 
at  once.  I  should  say  that  the  most  prominent 
scientific  men  of  our  country,  and  perhaps  of  this  age, 
are  either  serving  the  arts,  and  not  pure  science,  or 
are  performing  faithful  but  quite  subordinate  labors 
in  particular  departments.  They  make  no  steady  and 
systematic  approaches  to  the  central  fact.  A  dis- 
covery is  made,  and  at  once  the  attention  of  all  ob- 
servers is  distracted  to  that,  and  it  draws  many  analo- 
gous discoveries  in  its  train  ;  as  if  their  work  were 
not  already  laid  out  for  them,  but  they  had  been  lying 
on  their  oars.  There  is  wanting  constant  and  accurate 
observation  with  enough  of  theory  to  direct  and  disci- 
pline it. 

But  above  all,  there  is  wanting  genius.  Our  books 
of  science,  as  they  improve  in  accuracy,  are  in  danger 
of  losing  the  freshness  and  vigor  and  readiness  to 
appreciate  the  real  laws  of  Nature,  which  is  a  marked 
merit  in  the  oft-times  false  theories  of  the  ancients. 
I  am  attracted  by  the  slight  pride  and  satisfaction, 
the  emphatic  and  even  exaggerated  style  in  which 
some  of  the  older  naturalists  speak  of  the  opera- 
tions of  Nature,  though  they  are  better  qualified  to 
appreciate  than  to  discriminate  the  facts.  Their 
assertions  are  not  without  value  when  disproved.  If 
they  are  not  facts,  they  are  suggestions  for  Nature 
herself  to  act  upon.  "The  Greeks,"'  says  Gesner, 
"  had  a  common  proverb  (Aayos  KuOevhov)  a  sleeping 
hare,  for  a  dissembler  or  counterfeit ;  because  the 
hare  sees  when  she  sleeps ;  for  this  is  an  admirable 
and  rare  work  of  Nature,  that  all  the  residue  of  her 


370    ^    WEEK  OX    THE    COXCORD   RIVER. 

bodily  parts    take    their   rest,  but    the    eye    standeth 
continually  sentinel."" 

Observation  is  so  wide  awake,  and  facts  are  being 
so  rapidly  added  to  the  sum  of  human  experience, 
that  it  appears  as  if  the  theorizer  would  always  be 
in  arrears,  and  were  doomed  forever  to  arrive  at  im- 
perfect conclusions ;  but  the  power  to  perceive  a  law- 
is  equally  rare  in  all  ages  of  the  world,  and  depends 
but  little  on  the  number  of  facts  observed.  The 
senses  of  the  savage  will  furnish  him  with  facts 
enough  to  set  him  up  as  a  philosopher.  The  an- 
cients can  still  speak  to  us  with  authority  even  on  the 
themes  of  geology  and  chemistry,  though  these  studies 
are  thought  to  have  had  their  birth  in  modern  times. 
Much  is  said  about  the  progress  of  science  in  these 
centuries.  I  should  say  that  the  useful  results  of 
science  had  accumulated,  but  that  there  had  been  no 
accumulation  of  knowledge,  strictly  speaking,  for 
posterity ;  for  knowledge  is  to  be  acquired  only  by  a 
corresponding  experience.  How  can  we  know  what 
we  are  told  merely  ?  Each  man  can  interpret  another's 
experience  only  by  his  own.  We  read  that  Newton 
discovered  the  law  of  gravitation,  but  how  many  who 
have  heard  of  his  famous  discovery  have  recognized 
the  same  truth  that  he  did  ?  It  may  be  not  one. 
The  revelation  which  was  then  made  to  him  has  not 
been  superseded  by  the  revelation  made  to  any  suc- 
cessor. — 

We  see  \\\e planet  fall, 
And  that  is  all. 

In  a  review  of  Sir  James  Clark  Ross^  Antarctic  Voy- 
age of  Discovery,  there  is  a  passage  which  shows  how 
far  a   body  of  men  are  commonly  impressed  by  an 


FRIDAY.  371 

object  of  sublimity,  and  which  is  also  a  good  instance 
of  the  step  from  the  sublime  to  the  ridiculous.  After 
describing  the  discovery  of  the  Antarctic  Continent, 
at  first  seen  a  hundred  miles  distant  over  fields  of 
ice,  —  stupendous  ranges  of  mountains  from  seven 
and  eight  to  twelve  and  fourteen  thousand  feet  high, 
covered  with  eternal  snow  and  ice,  in  solitary  and 
inaccessible  grandeur,  at  one  time  the  weather  being 
beautifully  clear,  and  the  sun  shining  on  the  icy  land- 
scape ;  a  continent  whose  islands  only  are  accessible, 
and  these  exhibited  "not  the  smallest  trace  of  vegeta- 
tion," only  in  a  few  places  the  rocks  protruding  through 
their  icy  covering,  to  convince  the  beholder  that  land 
formed  the  nucleus,  and  tliat  it  was  not  an  iceberg ;  — 
the  practical  British  reviewer  proceeds  thus,  sticking 
to  his  last,  "  On  the  22d  of  January,  afternoon,  the 
Expedition  made  the  latitude  of  74°  20',  and  by  f" 
P.M.,  having  ground  to  believe  that  they  were  then 
in  a  higher  southern  latitude  than  had  been  attained 
by  that  enterprising  seaman,  the  late  Captain  James 
Weddel,  and  therefore  higher  than  all  their  predeces- 
sors, an  extra  allowance  of  grog  was  issued  to  the 
crews  as  a  reward  for  their  perseverance." 

Let  not  us  sailors  of  late  centuries  take  upon  our- 
selves any  airs  on  account  of  our  Newtons  and  our 
Cuviers.  We  deserve  an  extra  allowance  of  grog 
only. 

We  endeavored  in  vain  to  persuade  the  wind  to 
blow  through  the  long  corridor  of  the  canal,  which 
is  here  cut  straight  through  the  woods,  and  were 
obliged  to  resort  to  our  old  expedient  of  drawing  by 
a  cord.  When  we  reached  the  Concord,  we  were 
forced  to  row  once  more  in  good  earnest,  with  neither 


372    A    WEE  A'   OX   THE   COXCORD   RIVER. 

wind  nor  current  in  our  favor,  but  by  this  time  the 
rawness  of  the  day  had  disappeared,  and  we  expe- 
rienced the  warmth  of  a  summer  afternoon.  This 
change  in  the  weather  was  favorable  to  our  con- 
templative mood,  and  disposed  us  to  dream  yet 
deeper  at  our  oars,  while  we  floated  in  imagination 
further  dow-n  the  stream  of  time,  as  we  had  floated 
down  the  stream  of  the  Merrimack,  to  poets  of  a 
milder  period  than  had  engaged  us  in  the  morning. 
Chelmsford  and  Billerica  appeared  like  old  English 
towns,  compared  with  Merrimack  and  Nashua,  and 
many  generations  of  civil  poets  might  have  lived  and 
sung  here. 

What  a  contrast  between  the  stern  and  desolate 
poetry  of  Ossian,  and  that  of  Chaucer,  and  even  of 
Shakspeare  and  Milton,  much  more  of  Dr}den,  and 
Pope,  and  Gray.  Our  summer  of  English  poetry,  like 
the  Greek  and  Latin  before  it,  seems  well  advanced 
toward  its  fall,  and  laden  with  the  fruit  and  foliage 
of  the  season,  with  bright  autumnal  tints,  but  soon 
the  winter  will  scatter  its  myriad  clustering  and  shad- 
ing leaves,  and  leave  only  a  few  desolate  and  fibrous 
boughs  to  sustain  the  snow  and  rime,  and  creak  in 
the  blasts  of  ages.  We  cannot  escape  the  impres- 
sion that  the  Muse  has  stooped  a  little  in  her  flight, 
when  we  come  to  the  literature  of  civilized  eras.  Now 
first  we  hear  of  various  ages  and  styles  of  poetry ;  it 
is  pastoral,  and  lyric,  and  narrative,  and  didactic ;  but 
the  poetry  of  runic  monuments  is  of  one  style,  and 
for  every  age.  The  bard  has  in  a  great  measure  lost 
the  dignity  and  sacredness  of  his  office.  Formerly 
he  was  called  a  seer,  but  now  it  is  thought  that  one 
man  sees  as  much  as  another.     He  has  no  longer  the 


FRIDAY,  373 

bardic  rage,  and  only  conceives  the  deed,  which  he 
fornierly  stood  ready  to  perform.  Hosts  of  warriors 
earnest  for  battle  could  not  mistake  nor  dispense  with 
the  ancient  bard.  His  lays  were  heard  in  the  pauses 
of  the  fight.  There  was  no  danger  of  his  being  over- 
looked by  his  contemporaries.  But  now  the  hero  and 
the  bard  are  of  different  professions.  When  w-e  come 
to  the  pleasant  English  verse,  the  storms  have  all 
cleared  away,  and  it  will  never  thunder  and  lighten 
more.  The  poet  has  come  within  doors,  and  ex- 
changed the  forest  and  crag  for  the  fireside,  the 
hut  of  the  Gael,  and  Stonehenge  with  its  circles  of 
stones,  for  the  house  of  the  Englishman.  No  hero 
stands  at  the  door  prepared  to  break  forth  into  song 
or  heroic  action,  but  a  homely  Englishman,  who  culti- 
vates the  art  of  poetry.  We  see  the  comfortable  fire- 
side, and  hear  the  crackling  fagots  in  all  the  verse. 

Notwithstanding  the  broad  humanity  of  Chaucer, 
and  the  many  social  and  domestic  comforts  which  we 
meet  with  in  his  verse,  we  have  to  narrow  our  vision 
somewhat  to  consider  him,  as  if  he  occupied  less 
space  in  the  landscape,  and  did  not  stretch  over  hill 
and  valley  as  Ossian  does.  Yet,  seen  from  the  side 
of  posterity,  as  the  father  of  English  poetry,  preceded 
by  a  long  silence  or  confusion  in  history,  unenlivened 
by  any  strain  of  pure  melody,  we  easily  come  to  rever- 
ence him.  Passing  over  the  earlier  continental  poets, 
since  we  are  bound  to  the  pleasant  archipelago  of 
English  poetry,  Chaucer's  is  the  first  name  after  that 
misty  weather  in  which  Ossian  lived,  which  can  detain 
us  long.  Indeed,  though  he  represents  so  different  a 
culture  and  society,  he  may  be  regarded  as  in  many 
respects  the  Homer  of  the  English  poets.  Perhaps 
he  is  the  youthfullest  of  them  all.     We  return  to  him 


374    ^    ^VE-^^   ON   THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

as  to  the  purest  well,  the  fountain  furthest  removed 
from  the  highway  of  desultory  life.  He  is  so  natural 
and  cheerful,  compared  with  later  poets,  that  we  might 
almost  regard  him  as  a  personification  of  spring.  To 
the  faithful  reader  his  muse  has  even  given  an  aspect 
to  his  times,  and  when  he  is  fresh  from  perusing  him, 
they  seem  related  to  the  golden  age.  It  is  still  the 
poetry  of  youth  and  life,  rather  than  of  thought ;  and 
though  the  moral  vein  is  obvious  and  constant,  it  has 
not  yet  banished  the  sun  and  daylight  from  his  verse. 
The  loftiest  strains  of  the  muse  are,  for  the  most  part, 
sublimely  plaintive,  and  not  a  carol  as  free  as  nature's. 
The  content  which  the  sun  shines  to  celebrate  from 
morning  to  evening,  is  unsung.  The  muse  solaces 
herself,  and  is  not  ravished  but  consoled.  There  is 
a  catastrophe  implied,  and  a  tragic  element  in  all  our 
verse,  and  less  of  the  lark  and  morning  dews,  than  of 
the  nightingale  and  evenins;  shades.  But  in  Homer 
and  Chaucer  there  is  more  of  the  innocence  and  seren- 
ity of  youth,  than  in  the  more  modern  and  moral  poets. 
The  Iliad  is  not  Sabbath  but  morning  reading,  and 
men  cling  to  this  old  song,  because  they  still  have 
moments  of  unbaptized  and  uncommitted  life,  which 
give  them  an  appetite  for  more.  To  the  innocent 
there  are  neither  cherubim  nor  angels.  At  rare  in- 
tervals we  rise  above  the  necessity  of  virtue  into  an 
unchangeable  mornmg  light,  in  which  we  have  only 
to  live  right  on  and  breathe  the  ambrosial  air.  The 
Iliad  represents  no  creed  nor  opinion,  and  we  read  it 
with  a  rare  sense  of  freedom  and  irresponsibility,  as 
if  we  trod  on  native  ground,  and  were  autochthones 
of  the  soil. 

Chaucer  had  eminently  the  habits  of  a  literary  man 
and  a  scholar.     There  were  never  any  times  so  stirring 


FRiDA  y.  375 

that  there  were  not  to  be  found  some  sedentary  still. 
He  was  surrounded  by  the  din  of  arms.  The  battles 
of  HaHdon  Hill  and  Neville's  Cross,  and  the  still 
more  memorable  battles  of  Cressy  and  Poictiers,  were 
fought  in  his  youth ;  but  these  did  not  concern  our 
poet  much,  Wickliffe  and  his  reform  much  more. 
He  regarded  himself  always  as  one  privileged  to  sit 
and  converse  with  books.  He  helped  to  establish 
the  literary  class.  His  character  as  one  of  the  fathers 
of  the  English  language,  would  alone  make  his  works 
important,  even  those  which  have  little  poetical  merit. 
He  was  as  simple  as  Wordsworth  in  preferring  his 
homely  but  vigorous  Saxon  tongue,  when  it  was 
neglected  by  the  court,  and  had  not  yet  attained  to 
the  dignity  of  a  literature,  and  rendered  a  similar  ser- 
vice to  his  country  to  that  which  Dante  rendered  to 
Italy.  If  Greek  sufficeth  for  Greek,  and  Arabic  for 
Arabian,  and  Hebrew  for  Jew,  and  Latin  for  Latin, 
then  English  shall  suffice  for  him,  for  any  of  these 
will  serve  to  teach  truth  '•  right  as  divers  pathes  leaden 
divers  folke  the  right  waye  to  Rome."  In  the  Testa- 
ment of  Love  he  writes,  "  Let  then  clerkes  enditen  in 
Latin,  for  they  have  the  propertie  of  science,  and  the 
knowinge  in  that  facultie,  and  lette  Frenchmen  in 
their  Frenche  also  enditen  their  queinte  termes,  for 
it  is  kyndely  to  their  mouthes,  and  let  us  shewe  our 
fantasies  in  soche  wordes  as  we  lerneden  of  our  dames 
tonge."" 

He  will  know  how  to  appreciate  Chaucer  best,  who 
has  come  down  to  him  the  natural  way,  through  the 
meagre  pastures  of  Saxon  and  ante-Chaucerian  poe- 
try ;  and  yet,  so  human  and  wise  he  appears  after 
such  diet,  that  we  are  liable  to  misjudge  him  still.  In 
the  Saxon  poetry  extant,  in  the  earliest  English,  and 


376    -/    WEEK   ON   THE    CONCORD  RIVER. 

the  contemporary  Scottish  poetry,  there  is  less  to 
remind  the  reader  of  the  rudeness  and  vigor  of  youth, 
than  of  the  feebleness  of  a  declining  age.  It  is  for 
the  most  part  translation  or  imitation  merely,  with 
only  an  occasional  and  slight  tinge  of  poetry,  often- 
times the  falsehood  and  exaggeration  of  fable,  without 
its  imagination  to  redeem  it,  and  we  look  in  vain  to 
find  antiquity  restored,  humanized,  and  made  blithe 
again  by  some  natural  sympathy  between  it  and  the 
present.  But  Chaucer  is  fresh  and  modern  still,  and 
no  dust  settles  on  his  true  passages.  It  lightens  along 
the  line,  and  we  are  reminded  that  flowers  have 
bloomed,  and  birds  sung,  and  hearts  beaten,  in 
England.  Before  the  earnest  gaze  of  the  reader,  the 
rust  and  moss  of  time  gradually  drop  off,  and  the  orig- 
inal green  life  is  revealed.  He  was  a  homely  and  do- 
mestic man,  and  did  breathe  quite  as  modern  men  do. 
There  is  no  wisdom  that  can  take  place  of  human- 
ity, and  we  find  that  in  Chaucer.  We  can  expand  at 
last  in  his  breath,  and  we  think  that  we  could  have 
been  that  man's  acquaintance.  He  was  worthy  to 
be  a  citizen  of  England,  while  Petrarch  and  Boccaccio 
lived  in  Italy,  and  Tell  and  Tamerlane  in  Switzer- 
land and  in  Asia,  and  Bruce  in  Scotland,  and  Wick- 
liffe,  and  Gower,  and  Edward  the  Third,  and  John  of 
Gaunt,  and  the  Black  Prince,  were  his  own  country- 
men as  well  as  contemporaries  ;  all  stout  and  stirring 
names.  The  fame  of  Roger  Bacon  came  down  from 
the  preceding  century,  and  the  name  of  Dante  still 
possessed  the  influence  of  a  living  presence.  On  the 
whole,  Chaucer  impresses  us  as  greater  than  his  repu- 
tation, and  not  a  little  like  Homer  and  Shakspeare, 
for  he  would  have  held  up  his  head  in  their  company. 
Among  early  English  poets  he  is  the  landlord  and 


FRIDA  V.  377 

host,  and  has  the  authority  of  such.  The  affectionate 
mention  which  succeeding  early  poets  make  of  him, 
coupling  him  with  Homer  and  Virgil,  is  to  be  taken 
into  the  account  in  estimating  his  character  and  influ- 
ence. King  James  and  Dunbar  of  Scotland  speak  of 
him  with  more  love  and  reverence  than  any  modern 
author  of  his  predecessors  of  the  last  century.  The 
same  childlike  relation  is  without  a  parallel  now.  For 
the  most  part  we  read  him  without  criticism,  for  he 
does  not  plead  his  own  cause,  but  speaks  for  his 
readers,  and  has  that  greatness  of  trust  and  reliance 
which  compels  popularity.  He  confides  in  the  reader, 
and  speaks  privily  with  him,  keeping  nothing  back. 
And  in  return  the  reader  has  great  confidence  in  him, 
that  he  tells  no  lies,  and  reads  his  story  with  indul- 
gence, as  if  it  were  the  circumlocution  of  a  child,  but 
often  discovers  afterwards  that  he  has  spoken  with 
more  directness  and  economy  of  words  than  a  sage. 
He  is  never  heartless, 

■'  For  first  the  thing  is  thought  within  the  hart, 
Er  any  word  out  from  the  mouth  astart." 

And  so  new  was  all  his  theme  in  those  days,  that  he 
did  not  have  to  invent,  but  only  to  tell. 

We  admire  Chaucer  for  his  sturdy  English  wit. 
The  easy  height  he  speaks  from  in  his  Prologue  to 
the  Canterbury  Tales,  as  if  he  were  equal  to  any  of 
the  company  there  assembled,  is  as  good  as  any  par- 
ticular excellence  in  it.  But  though  it  is  full  of  good 
sense  and  humanity,  it  is  not  transcendent  poetry. 
For  picturesque  descriptions  of  persons  it  is,  perhaps, 
without  a  parallel  in  English  poetry  ;  yet  it  is  essen- 
tially humorous,  as  the  loftiest  genius  never  is.  Hu- 
mor, however  broad  and  genial,  takes  a  narrower  view 


3/8    ^    WEEK   ON   THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

than  enthusiasm.  To  his  own  finer  vein  he  added  all 
the  common  wit  and  wisdom  of  his  time,  and  every- 
where in  his  works  his  remarkable  knowledge  of  the 
world  and  nice  perception  of  character,  his  rare  com- 
mon sense  and  proverbial  wisdom,  are  apparent.  His 
genius  does  not  soar  like  Milton's,  but  is  genial  and 
familiar.  It  shows  great  tenderness  and  delicacy,  but 
not  the  heroic  sentiment.  It  is  only  a  greater  portion 
of  humanity  with  all  its  weakness.  He  is  not  heroic, 
as  Raleigh,  nor  pious,  as  Herbert,  nor  philosophical, 
as  Shakspeare,  but  he  is  the  child  of  the  English 
muse,  that  child  which  is  the  father  of  the  man.  The 
charm  of  his  poetry  consists  often  only  in  an  exceed- 
ing naturalness,  perfect  sincerity,  with  the  behavior 
of  a  child  rather  than  of  a  man. 

Gentleness  and  delicacy  of  character  are  ever}'- 
where  apparent  in  his  verse.  The  simplest  and 
humblest  words  come  readily  to  his  lips.  No  one 
can  read  the  Prioress'  tale,  understanding  the  spirit 
in  which  it  was  written,  and  in  which  the  child  sings 
O  alma  redemptoris  fuater,  or  the  account  of  the  de- 
parture of  Constance  with  her  child  upon  the  sea,  in 
the  Man  of  Lawe's  tale,  without  feeling  the  native 
innocence  and  refinement  of  the  author.  Nor  can  we 
be  mistaken  respecting  the  essential  purity  of  his 
character,  disregarding  the  apology  of  the  manners  of 
the  age.  A  simple  pathos  and  feminine  gentleness, 
which  Wordsworth  only  occasionally  approaches,  but 
does  not  equal,  are  peculiar  to  him.  We  are  tempted 
to  say  that  his  genius  was  feminine,  not  masculine. 
It  was  such  a  feminineness,  however,  as  is  rarest  to  find 
in  woman,  though  not  the  appreciation  of  it ;  perhaps 
it  is  not  to  be  found  at  all  in  woman,  but  is  only  the 
feminine  in  man. 


FRIDAY.  379 

Such  pure,  and  genuine,  and  childlike  love  of  Na- 
ture is  hardly  to  be  found  in  an}-  poet. 

Chaucer's  remarkably  trustful  and  affectionate  char- 
acter appears  in  his  familiar,  yet  innocent  and  rever- 
ent, manner  of  speaking  of  his  God.  He  comes  into 
his  thought  without  any  false  reverence,  and  with  no 
more  parade  than  the  zephyr  to  his  ear.  If  Nature  is 
our  mother,  then  God  is  our  father.  There  is  less 
love  and  simple  practical  trust  in  Shakspeare  and 
Milton.  How  rarely  in  our  English  tongue  do  we 
find  expressed  any  affection  for  God.  Certainly,  there 
is  no  sentiment  so  rare  as  the  love  of  God.  Herbert 
almost  alone  expresses  it,  '■-  Ah,  my  dear  God  ! ''  Our 
poet  uses  similar  words  with  propriety,  and  whenever 
he  sees  a  beautiful  person,  or  other  object,  prides 
himself  on  the  ''  maistry  *'  of  his  God.  He  even  rec- 
ommends Dido  to  be  his  bride, — 

"  if  that  God  that  heaven  and  yearth  made, 

Would  have  a  love  for  beauty  and  goodnesse, 
And  womanhede,  trouth,  and  semehness." 

But  in  justification  of  our  praise,  we  must  refer  to 
his  works  themselves ;  to  the  Prologue  to  the  Canter- 
bury Tales,  the  account  of  Gentilesse,  the  Flower  and 
the  Leaf,  the  stories  of  Griselda,  Virginia,  Ariadne, 
and  Blanche  the  Dutchesse,  and  much  more  of  less  dis- 
tinguished merit.  There  are  many  poets  of  more  taste 
and  better  manners,  who  knew  how  to  leave  out  their 
dulness,  but  such  negative  genius  cannot  detain  us 
long ;  we  shall  return  to  Chaucer  still  with  love. 
Some  natures  which  are  really  rude  and  ill  developed, 
have  yet  a  higher  standard  of  perfection  than  others 
which  are  refined  and  well  balanced.  Even  the  clown 
has  taste,  whose  dictates,  though  he  disregards  them, 


380    A    IVEEK   ON   THE    COXCORD   RIVER. 

are  higher  and  purer  than  those  which  the  artist 
obeys.  If  we  have  to  wander  through  many  dull  and 
prosaic  passages  in  Chaucer,  w^e  have  at  least  the  satis- 
faction of  knowing  that  it  is  not  an  artificial  dulness, 
but  too  easily  matched  by  many  passages  in  hfe.  We 
confess  that  we  feel  a  disposition  commonly  to  concen- 
trate sweets,  and  accumulate  pleasures,  but  the  poet 
may  be  presumed  always  to  speak  as  a  traveller,  who 
leads  us  through  a  varied  scenery,  from  one  eminence 
to  another,  and  it  is,  perhaps,  more  pleasing,  after  all, 
to  meet  with  a  fine  thought  in  its  natural  setting. 
Surely  fate  has  enshrined  it  in  these  circumstances  for 
some  end.  Nature  strews  her  nuts  and  flowers  broad- 
cast, and  never  collects  them  into  heaps.  This  was 
the  soil  it  grew  in,  and  this  the  hour  it  bloomed  in ; 
if  sun,  wind,  and  rain  came  here  to  cherish  and 
expand  the  flower,  shall  not  we  come  here  to  pluck 
it? 

A  true  poem  is  distinguished  not  so  much  by  a 
felicitous  expression,  or  any  thought  it  suggests,  as 
by  the  atmosphere  which  surrounds  it.  Most  have 
beauty  of  outline  merely,  and  are  striking  as  the  form 
and  bearing  of  a  stranger,  but  true  verses  come  toward 
us  indistinctly,  as  the  very  breath  of  all  friendliness, 
and  envelop  us  in  their  spirit  and  fragrance.  Much 
of  our  poetry  has  the  very  best  manners,  but  no  char- 
acter. It  is  only  an  unusual  precision  and  elasticity 
of  speech,  as  if  its  author  had  taken,  not  an  intoxicat- 
ing draught,  but  an  electuary.  It  has  the  distinct 
outline  of  sculpture,  and  chronicles  an  early  hour. 
Under  the  influence  of  passion  all  men  speak  thus 
distinctly,  but  wrath  is  not  always  divine. 

There  are  two  classes  of  men  called  poets.  The  one 
cultivates  life,  the  other  art,  —  one  seeks  food  for  nu- 


FRIDAY.  381 

triment,  the  other  for  flavor ;  one  satisfies  hunger,  the 
other  gratifies  the  palate.  There  are  two  kinds  of 
writing,  both  great  and  rare ;  one  that  of  genius,  or 
the  inspired,  the  other  of  intellect  and  taste,  in  the 
intervals  of  inspiration.  The  former  is  above  criti- 
cism, always  correct,  giving  the  law  to  criticism.  It 
vibrates  and  pulsates  with  life  forever.  It  is  sacred, 
and  to  be  read  with  reverence,  as  the  works  of  nature 
are  studied.  There  are  few  instances  of  a  sustained 
style  of  this  kind ;  perhaps  every  man  has  spoken 
words,  but  the  speaker  is  then  careless  of  the  record. 
Such  a  style  removes  us  out  of  personal  relations  with 
its  author,  we  do  not  take  his  words  on  our  lips,  but 
his  sense  into  our  hearts.  It  is  the  stream  of  inspira- 
tion, which  bubbles  out,  now  here,  now  there,  now  in 
this  man,  now  in  that.  It  matters  not  through  what 
ice-crystals  it  is  seen,  now  a  fountain,  now  the  ocean 
stream  running  under  ground.  It  is  in  Shakspeare, 
Alpheus,  in  Burns,  Arethuse ;  but  ever  the  same. — 
The  other  is  self-possessed  and  wise.  It  is  reverent 
of  genius,  and  greedy  of  inspiration.  It  is  conscious 
in  the  highest  and  the  least  degree.  It  consists  with 
the  most  perfect  command  of  the  faculties.  It  dwells 
in  a  repose  as  of  the  desert,  and  objects  are  as  distinct 
in  it  as  oases  or  palms  in  the  horizon  of  sand.  The 
train  of  thought  moves  with  subdued  and  measured 
step,  like  a  caravan.  But  the  pen  is  only  an  instru- 
ment in  its  hand,  and  not  instinct  with  life,  like  a 
longer  arm.  It  leaves  a  thin  varnish  or  glaze  over  all 
its  work.  The  works  of  Goethe  furnish  remarkable 
instances  of  the  latter. 

There  is  no  just  and  serene  criticism  as  yet.  Noth- 
ing is  considered  simply  as  it  lies  in  the  lap  of  eternal 
beautv,  but  our  thoughts,  as  well  as  our  bodies,  must 


382    ^    WEEK   ON   THE   CONCORD   RIVER. 

be  dressed  after  the  latest  fashions.  Our  taste  is  too 
delicate  and  particular.  It  says  nay  to  the  poet's 
work,  but  never  yea  to  his  hope.  It  invites  him  to 
adorn  his  deformities,  and  not  to  cast  them  off  by  ex- 
pansion, as  the  tree  its  bark.  We  are  a  people  who 
live  in  a  bright  light,  in  houses  of  pearl  and  porcelain, 
and  drink  only  light  wines,  whose  teeth  are  easily  set 
on  edge  by  the  least  natural  sour.  If  we  had  been 
consulted,  the  backbone  of  the  earth  would  have  been 
made,  not  of  granite,  but  of  Bristol  spar.  A  modern 
author  would  have  died  in  infancy  in  a  ruder  age. 
But  the  poet  is  something  more  than  a  scald,  '•  a 
smoother  and  polisher  of  language  ;  "  he  is  a  Cincin- 
natus  in  hterature,  and  occupies  no  west  end  of  the 
world.  Like  the  sun,  he  will  indifferently  select  his 
rhymes,  and  with  a  liberal  taste  weave  into  his  verse 
the  planet  and  the  stubble. 

In  these  old  books  the  stucco  has  long  since  crum- 
bled away,  and  we  read  what  was  sculptured  in  the 
granite.  They  are  rude  and  massive  in  their  propor- 
tions, rather  than  smooth  and  delicate  in  their  finish. 
The  workers  in  stone  polish  only  their  chimney  orna- 
ments, but  their  pyramids  are  roughly  done.  There 
is  a  soberness  in  a  rough  aspect,  as  of  unhewn  gran- 
ite, which  addresses  a  depth  in  us,  but  a  polished  sur- 
face hits  only  the  ball  of  the  eye.  The  true  finish  is 
the  work  of  time  and  the  use  to  which  a  thing  is  put. 
The  elements  are  still  polishing  the  pyramids.  Art 
may  varnish  and  gild,  but  it  can  do  no  more.  A  work 
of  genius  is  rough-hewn  from  the  first,  because  it  anti- 
cipates the  lapse  of  time,  and  has  an  ingrained  polish, 
which  still  appears  when  fragments  are  broken  off,  an 
essential  quality  of  its  substance.  Its  beauty  is  at  the 
same  time  its  strength,  and  it  breaks  with  a  lustre. 


FRIDAY.  383 

The  great  poem  must  have  the  stamp  of  greatness 
as  well  as  its  essence.  The  reader  easily  goes  within 
the  shallowest  contemporary  poetry,  and  informs  it 
with  all  the  life  and  promise  of  the  day,  as  the 
pilgrim  goes  within  the  temple,  and  hears  the  faintest 
strains  of  the  worshippers  ;  but  it  will  have  to  speak  to 
posterity,  traversing  these  deserts,  through  the  ruins 
of  its  outmost  walls,  by  the  grandeur  and  beauty  of 
its  proportions. 

But  here  on  the  stream  of  the  Concord,  where  we 
have  all  the  whilebeen  bodily,  Nature,  who  is  superior 
to  all  styles  and  ages,  is  now,  with  pensive  face,  com- 
posing her  poem  Autumn,  with  which  no  work  of  man 
will  bear  to  be  compared. 

In  summer  we  live  out  of  doors,  and  have  only  im- 
pulses and  feelings,  which  are  all  for  action,  and  must 
wait  commonly  for  the  stillness  and  longer  nights  of 
autumn  and  wholly  new  life,  which  no  man  has  lived ; 
that  even  this  earth  was  made  for  more  mysterious 
and  nobler  inhabitants  than  men  and  women.  In  the 
hues  of  October  sunsets,  we  see  the  portals  to  other 
mansions  than  those  which  we  occupy,  not  far  off 
geographically.  — 

"  There  is  a  place  beyond  that  flaming  hill, 

From  whence  the  stars  their  thin  appearance  shed, 
A  place  beyond  all  place,  where  never  ill, 
Nor  impure  thought  was  ever  harbored." 

Sometimes  a  mortal  feels  in  himself  Nature,  not  his 
Father  but  his  Mother  stirs  within  him,  and  he  be- 
comes immortal  with  her  immortality.  From  time  to 
time  she  claims  kindredship  with  us,  and  some  globule 
from  her  veins  steals  up  into  our  own. 


384    A    WEEK   OX   THE    CONCORD  RIVER. 

I  am  the  autumnal  sun, 
With  autumn  gales  my  race  is  run  ; 
When  will  the  hazel  put  forth  its  flowers, 
Or  the  grape  ripen  under  my  bowers  ? 
When  will  the  harvest  or  the  hunter's  moon, 
Turn  my  midnight  into  mid-noon  ? 

I  am  all  sere  and  yellow, 

And  to  my  core  mellow. 
The  mast  is  dropping  within  my  woods. 
The  winter  is  lurking  within  my  moods, 
And  the  rustling  of  the  withered  leaf 
Is  the  constant  music  of  my  grief. 

To  an  unskilful  rhymer  the  Muse  thus  spoke  in 
prose  :  — 

The  moon  no  longer  reflects  the  day,  but  rises  to 
her  absolute  rule,  and  the  husbandman  and  hunter  ac- 
knowledge her  for  their  mistress.  Asters  and  golden- 
rods  reign  along  the  way,  and  the  life-ever-lasting 
withers  not.  The  fields  are  reaped  and  shorn  of  their 
pride,  but  an  inward  verdure  still  crowns  them.  The 
thistle  scatters  its  down  on  the  pool,  and  yellow  leaves 
clothe  the  vine,  and  naught  disturbs  the  serious  life 
of  men.  But  behind  the  sheaves,  and  under  the 
sod,  there  lurks  a  ripe  fruit,  which  the  reapers  have 
not  gathered,  the  true  harvest  of  the  year,  which  it 
bears  for  ever,  annually  watering  and  maturing  it,  and 
man  never  severs  the  stalk  which  bears  this  palatable 
fruit. 

Men  nowhere,  east  or  west,  live  yet  a  natural  life, 
round  which  the  vine  clings,  and  which  the  elm  will- 
ingly shadows.  Man  would  desecrate  it  by  his  touch, 
and  so  the  beauty  of  the  world  remains  veiled  to  him. 
He  needs  not  only  to  be  spiritualized,  but  naturalized, 
on  the  soil  of  earth.     Who  sliall  conceive  what  kind 


FRIDAY.  385 

of  roof  the  heavens  might  extend  over  him,  what  sea- 
sons minister  to  him,  and  what  employment  dignify 
his  Hfe!  Only  the  convalescent  raise  the  veil  of 
nature.  An  immortality  in  his  life  would  confer 
immortality  on  his  abode.  The  winds  should  be  his 
breath,  the  seasons  his  moods,  and  he  should  impart 
of  his  serenity  to  Nature  herself.  But  such  as  we 
know  him  he  is  ephemeral  like  the  scenery  that  sur- 
rounds him,  and  does  not  aspire  to  an  enduring  exist- 
ence. When  we  come  down  into  the  distant  village, 
visible  from  the  mountain  top,  the  nobler  inhabitants 
with  whom  we  peopled  it  have  departed,  and  left  only 
vermin  in  its  desolate  streets.  It  is  the  imagination 
of  poets  which  puts  those  brave  speeches  into  the 
mouths  of  their  heroes.  They  may  feign  that  Cato's 
last  words  were 

"  The  earth,  the  air,  and  seas  I  know,  and  all 
The  joys  and  horrors  of  their  peace  and  wars  ; 
And  now  will  view  the  Gods'  state  and  the  stars," 

but  such  are  not  the  thoughts  nor  the  destiny  of 
common  men.  What  is  this  heaven  which  they  ex- 
pect, if  it  is  no  better  than  they  expect?  Are  they 
prepared  for  a  better  than  they  can  now  imagine? 
Here  or  nowhere  is  our  heaven.  — 

"  Although  we  see  celestial  bodies  move 
Above  the  earth,  the  earth  we  till  and  love." 

We  can  conceive  of  nothing  more  fair  than  something 
which  we  have  experienced.  "  The  remembrance  of 
youth  is  a  sigh.'''  We  linger  in  manhood  to  tell  the 
dreams  of  our  childhood,  and  they  are  half  forgotten 
ere  we  have  learned  the  language.  We  have  need  to 
W  earth-born  as  well  as  heaven-born,  yi^yei/et?,  as  was 


386    A    WEEK   O.V   THE   CONCORD  RIVER. 

said  of  the  Titans  of  old,  or  in  a  better  sense  than 
they.  There  have  been  heroes  for  whom  this  world 
seemed  expressly  prepared,  as  if  creation  had  at  last 
succeeded ;  whose  daily  life  was  the  stuff  of  which 
our  dreams  are  made,  and  whose  presence  enhanced 
the  beauty  and  ampleness  of  Nature  herself.  Where 
they  walked, 

"  Largior  hie  campos  aether  et  lumine  vestit 
Purpureo  :  Solemque  suum,  sua  sidera  n6runt." 

'•Here  a  more  copious  air  invests  the  fields,  and 
clothes  with  purple  light ;  and  they  know  their  own 
sun  and  their  own  stars."  We  love  to  hear  some  men 
speak,  though  we  hear  not  what  they  say ;  the  very 
air  they  breathe  is  rich  and  perfumed,  and  the  sound 
of  their  voices  falls  on  the  ear  like  the  rustling  of 
leaves  or  the  crackling  of  the  fire.  They  stand  many 
deep.  They  have  the  heavens  for  their  abettors,  as 
those  who  have  never  stood  from  under  them,  and 
they  look  at  the  stars  with  an  answering  ray.  Their 
eyes  are  like  glow-worms,  and  their  motions  graceful 
and  flowing,  as  if  a  place  were  already  found  for  them, 
like  rivers  flowing  through  valleys.  The  distinctions 
of  morality,  of  right  and  wrong,  sense  and  nonsense, 
are  petty,  and  have  lost  their  significance,  beside 
these  pure  primeval  natures.  When  I  consider  the 
clouds  stretched  in  stupendous  masses  across  the  sky, 
frowning  with  darkness,  or  glowing  with  downy  light, 
or  gilded  with  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  like  the 
battlements  of  a  city  in  the  heavens,  their  grandeur 
appears  thrown  away  on  the  meanness  of  my  employ- 
ment ;  the  drapery  is  altogether  too  rich  for  such 
poor  acting.  I  am  hardly  worthy  to  be  a  suburban 
dweller  outside  those  wp.lls. 


FRIDA  Y.  387 

"Unless  above  himself  he  can 
Erect  himself,  how  poor  a  thing  is  man  !  " 

With  our  music  we  would  fain  challenge  transiently 
another  and  finer  sort  of  intercourse  than  our  daily 
toil  permits.  The  strains  come  back  to  us  amended 
in  the  echo,  as  when  a  friend  reads  our  verse.  Why 
have  they  so  painted  the  fruits,  and  freighted  them 
with  such  fragrance  as  to  satisfy  a  more  than  animal 
appetite? 

"  I  asked  the  schoolman,  his  advice  v^as  free, 
But  scored  me  out  too  intricate  a  way." 

These  things  imply,  perchance,  that  w^e  live  on  the 
verge  of  another  and  purer  realm,  from  which  these 
odors  and  sounds  are  w^afted  over  to  us.  The  borders 
of  our  plot  are  set  with  flowers,  whose  seeds  were 
blown  from  more  Elysian  fields  adjacent.  They  are 
the  pot-herbs  of  the  gods.  Some  fairer  fruits  and 
sweeter  fragrances  wafted  over  to  us,  betray  another 
realm"'s  vicinity.  There,  too,  does  Echo  dwell,  and 
there  is  the  abutment  of  the  rainbow's  arch. 

A  finer  race  and  finer  fed 
Feast  and  revel  o'er  our  head. 
And  we  titmen  are  only  able 
To  catch  the  fragments  from  their  table. 
.     Theirs  is  the  fragrance  of  the  fruits, 
While  we  consume  the  pulp  and  roots. 
What  are  the  moments  that  we  stand 
Astonished  on  the  Olympian  land ! 

We  need  pray  for  no  higher  heaven  than  the  pure 
senses  can  furnish,  a  purely  sensuous  life.  Our  pres- 
ent senses  are  but  the  rudiments  of  what  they  are 
destined  to  become.  We  are  comparatively  deaf  and 
dumb  and  blind,  and  without  smell  or  taste  or  feeling. 
Every  generation  makes  the  discovery,  that  its  divine 


2,SS    A    WEEK   ON   THE    CONCORD  RIVER. 

vigor  has  been  dissipated,  and  each  sense  and  faculty 
misapplied  and  debauched.  The  ears  were  made, 
not  for  such  trivial  uses  as  men  are  wont  to  suppose, 
but  to  hear  celestial  sounds.  The  eyes  were  not 
made  for  such  grovelling  uses  as  they  are  now  put  to 
and  worn  out  by,  but  to  behold  beauty  now  invisible. 
May  we  not  see  God?  Are  we  to  be  put  off  and 
amused  in  this  life,  as  it  were  with  a  mere  allegory? 
Is  not  Nature,  rightly  read,  that  of  which  she  is  com- 
monly taken  to  be  the  symbol  merely?  When  the 
common  man  looks  into  the  sky,  which  he  has  not 
so  much  profaned,  he  thinks  it  less  gross  than  the 
earth,  and  with  reverence  speaks  of  "the  Heavens," 
but  the  seer  will  in  the  same  sense  speak  of  "the 
Earths,"  and  his  Father  who  is  in  them.  "  Did  not 
he  that  made  that  which  is  within,  make  that  which 
is  without  also  ? ''  What  is  it,  then,  to  educate  but  to 
develop  these  divine  germs  called  the  senses?  for 
individuals  and  states  to  deal  magnanimously  with 
the  rising  generation,  leading  it  not  into  temptation, 

—  not  teach  the  eye  to  squint,  nor  attune  the  ear  to 
profanity?  But  where  is  the  instructed  teacher? 
Where  are  the  normal  schools? 

A  Hindoo  sage  said,  ••  As  a  dancer  having  exhibited 
herself  to  the  spectator,  desists  from  the  dance,  so 
does  Nature  desist,  having  manifested  herself  to  soul. 

—  Nothing,  in  my  opinion,  is  more  gentle  than 
Nature ;  once  aware  of  having  been  seen,  she  does 
not  again  expose  herself  to  the  gaze  of  soul." 

It  is  easier  to  discover  another  such  a  new  world  as 
Columbus  did,  than  to  go  within  one  fold  of  this  which 
we  appear  to  know  so  well ;  the  land  is  lost  sight  of, 
the  compass  varies,  and  mankind  mutiny  ;   and  still 


FRIDAY.  389 

history  accumulates  like  rubbish  before  the  portals  of 
nature.  But  there  is  only  necessary  a  moment's  sanity 
and  sound  senses,  to  teach  us  that  there  is  a  nature 
behind  the  ordinary,  in  which  we  have  only  some 
vague  preemption  right  and  western  reserve  as  yet. 
We  live  on  the  outskirts  of  that  region.  Carved  wood, 
and  floating  boughs,  and  sunset  skies,  are  all  that  we 
know  of  it.  We  are  not  to  be  imposed  on  by  the 
longest  spell  of  weather.  Let  us  not,  my  friends,  be 
wheedled  and  cheated  into  good  behavior  to  earn  the 
salt  of  our  eternal  porridge,  whoever  they  are  that 
attempt  it.  Let  us  wait  a  little,  and  not  purchase  any 
clearing  here,  trusting  that  richer  bottoms  will  soon 
be  put  up.  It  is  but  thin  soil  where  we  stand  ;  I  have 
felt  my  roots  in  a  richer  ere  this.  I  have  seen  a  bunch 
of  violets  in  a  glass  vase,  tied  loosely  with  a  straw, 
which  reminded  me  of  myself.  — 

I  am  a  parcel  of  vain  strivings  tied 
By  a  chance  bond  together, 
Dangling  this  way  and  that,  their  links 
Were  made  so  loose  and  wide, 
Methinks, 
For  milder  weather. 

A  bunch  of  violets  without  their  roots, 
And  sorrel  intermixed. 
Encircled  by  a  wisp  of  straw 
Once  coiled  about  their  shoots, 
The  law 
By  which  I'm  fixed. 

A  nosegay  which  Time  clutched  from  out 
Those  fair  Elysian  fields. 
With  weeds  and  broken  stems,  in  haste, 
Doth  make  the  rabble  rout 
That  waste 
The  day  he  yields. 


390    A    WEEK   OX   THE    CONCORD  RIVER. 

And  here  I  bloom  for  a  short  hour  unseen, 
Drinking  my  juices  up, 
With  no  root  in  the  land 
To  keep  my  branches  green, 
But  stand 
In  a  bare  cup. 

Some  tender  buds  were  left  upon  my  stem 
In  mimicry  of  life, 
But  ah  !  the  children  will  not  know, 
Till  time  has  withered  them, 
The  wo 
With  which  they  're  rife. 

But  now  I  see  I  was  not  plucked  for  naught, 
And  after  in  life's  vase 
Of  glass  set  while  I  might  survive. 
But  by  a  kind  hand  brought 
Alive 
To  a  strange  place. 

That  stock  thus  thinned  will  soon  redeem  its  hours, 
And  by  another  year, 
Such  as  God  knows,  with  freer  air. 
More  fruits  and  fairer  flowers 
Will  bear. 
While  I  droop  here. 

This  world  has  many  rings,  like  Saturn,  and  we 
live  now  on  the  outmost  of  them  all.  None  can  say 
deliberately  that  he  inhabits  the  same  sphere,  or  is 
contemporary  with,  the  flower  which  his  hands  have 
plucked,  and  though  his  feet  may  seem  to  crush  it, 
inconceivable  spaces  and  ages  separate  them,  and 
perchance  there  is  no  danger  that  he  will  hurt  it. 
What  after  all  do  the  botanists  know?  Our  lives 
should  go  between  the  lichen  and  the  bark.  The  eye 
may  see  for  the  hand,  but  not  for  the  mind.     We  are 


FRIDAY.  391 

still  being  born,  and  have  as  yet  but  a  dim  vision  of 
sea  and  land,  sun,  moon  and  stars,  and  shall  not  see 
clearly  till  after  nine  days  at  least.  That  is  a  pathetic 
inquiry  among  travellers  and  geographers  after  the 
site  of  ancient  Troy.  It  is  not  near  where  they  think 
it  is.  When  a  thing  is  decayed  and  gone,  how  indis- 
tinct must  be  the  place  it  occupied! 

The  anecdotes  of  modern  astronomy  affect  me  in 
the  same  way  as  do  those  faint  revelations  of  the  Real 
which  are  vouchsafed  to  men  from  time  to  time,  or 
rather  from  eternity  to  eternity.  When  I  remember 
the  history  of  that  faint  light  in  our  firmament,  which 
we  call  Venus,  which  ancient  men  regarded,  and  which 
most  modern  men  still  regard,  as  a  bright  spark  at- 
tached to  a  hollow  sphere  revolving  about  our  earth, 
but  which  we  have  discovered  to  be  aiiothe}'  world  in 
itself,  —  how  Copernicus,  reasoning  long  and  patiently 
about  the  matter,  predicted  confidently  concerning  it, 
before  yet  the  telescope  had  been  invented,  that  if 
ever  men  came  to  see  it  more  clearly  than  they  did 
then,  they  would  discover  that  it  had  phases  like  our 
moon,  and  that  within  a  century  after  his  death  the 
telescope  was  invented,  and  that  prediction  verified, 
by  Galileo,  —  I  am  not  without  hope  that  we  may, 
even  here  and  now,  obtain  some  accurate  information 
concerning  that  Other  World  which  the  instinct  of 
mankind  has  so  long  predicted.  Indeed,  all  that  we 
call  science,  as  well  as  all  that  we  call  poetry,  is  a  par- 
ticle of  such  information,  accurate  as  far  as  it  goes, 
though  it  be  but  to  the  confines  of  the  truth.  If  we 
can  reason  so  accurately,  and  with  such  wonderful 
confirmation  of  our  reasoning,  respecting  so-called 
material  objects  and  events  infinitely  removed  beyond 
the  range  of  our  natural  vision,  so  that  the  mind  hesi- 


392    .1    IVEEK   ON   THE   COXCORD   RIVER. 

tates  to  trust  its  calculations  even  when  they  are  con- 
firmed by  observation,  why  may  not  our  speculations 
penetrate  as  far  into  the  immaterial  starry  system,  of 
which  the  former  is  but  the  outward  and  visible  type? 
Surely,  we  are  provided  with  senses  as  well  fitted  to 
penetrate  the  spaces  of  the  real,  the  substantial,  the 
eternal,  as  these  outward  are  to  penetrate  the  material 
universe.  Veias.  Menu,  Zoroaster,  Socrates,  Christ, 
Shakspeare,  Swedenborg,  —  these  are  some  of  our  as- 
tronomers. 

There  are  perturbations  in  our  orbits  produced  by 
the  influence  of  outlying  spheres,  and  no  astronomer 
has  ever  yet  calculated  the  elements  of  that  undis- 
covered world  which  produces  them.  I  perceive  in 
the  common  train  of  my  thoughts  a  natural  and  un- 
interrupted sequence,  each  implying  the  next,  or,  if 
interruption  occurs  it  is  occasioned  by  a  new  object 
being  presented  to  my  senses.  But  a  steep,  and  sud- 
den, and  by  these  means  unaccountable  transition,  is 
that  from  a  comparatively  narrow  and  partial,  what  is 
called  common  sense  view  of  things,  to  an  infinitely 
expanded  and  liberating  one,  from  seeing  things  as 
men  describe  them,  to  seeing  them  as  men  cannot 
describe  them.  This  implies  a  sense  which  is  not 
common,  but  rare  in  the  wisest  man's  experience : 
which  is  sensible  or  sentient  of  more  than  common. 

In  what  inclosures  does  the  astronomer  loiter!  His 
skies  are  shoal ;  and  imagination,  like  a  thirsty  trav- 
eller, pants  to  be  through  their  desert.  The  roving 
mind  impatiently  bursts  the  fetters  of  astronomical 
orbits,  like  cobwebs  in  a  corner  of  its  universe,  and 
launches  itself  to  where  distance  fails  to  follow,  and 
law,  such  as  science  has  discovered,  grows  weak 
and  weary.     The  mind  knows  a  distance  and  a  space 


FRIDA  V.  393 

of  which  all  those  sums  combined  do  not  make  a  unit 
of  measure,  — the  interval  between  that  which  appears 
and  that  which  is.  I  know  that  there  are  many  stars, 
1  know  that  they  are  far  enough  off,  bright  enough, 
steady  enough  in  their  orbits,  —  but  what  are  they  all 
worth  ?  They  are  more  waste  land  in  the  West,  — 
star  territory,  —  to  be  made  slave  States,  perchancej 
if  we  colonize  them.  I  have  interest  but  for  six  feet 
of  star,  and  that  interest  is  transient.  Then  farewell 
to  all  ye  bodies,  such  as  I  have  known  ye. 

Every  man,  if  he  is  wise,  will  stand  on  such  bottom 
as  will  sustain  him,  and  if  one  gravitates  downward 
more  strongly  than  another,  he  will  not  venture  on 
those  meads  where  the  latter  walks  securely,  but  rather 
leave  the  cranberries  which  grow  there  unraked  by 
himself.  Perchance,  some  spring  a  higher  freshet 
will  float  them  within  his  reach,  though  they  may  be 
watery  and  frost-bitten  by  that  time.  Such  shrivelled 
berries  I  have  seen  in  many  a  poor  man's  garret,  aye, 
in  many  a  church  bin  and  state  coff"er,  and  with  a 
little  water  and  heat  they  swell  again  to  their  original 
size  and  fairness,  and  added  sugar  enough,  stead  man- 
kind for  sauce  to  this  world's  dish. 

What  is  called  common  sense  is  excellent  in  its 
department,  and  as  invaluable  as  the  virtue  of  con- 
formity in  the  army  and  navy,  —  for  there  must  be 
subordination,  —  but  uncommon  sense,  that  sense 
which  is  common  only  to  the  wisest,  is  as  much 
more  excellent  as  it  is  more  rare.  Some  aspire  to 
excellence  in  the  subordinate  department,  and  may 
God  speed  them.  What  Fuller  says  of  masters  of 
colleges  is  universally  applicable,  that  "  a  little  alloy 
of  dulness  in  a  master  of  a  college  makes  him  fitter 
to  manage  secular  affairs." 


394    ^    ^EEK   ox   THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

"  He  that  wants  faith,  and  apprehends  a  grief 
Because  he  wants  it,  hath  a  true  behef ; 
And  he  that  grieves  because  his  grief's  so  small. 
Has  a  true  grief,  and  the  best  Faith  of  all." 

Or  be  encouraged  by  this  other  poet's  strain. 

"  By  them  went  Fido  marshal  of  the  field  : 

Weak  was  his  mother  when  she  gave  him  day ; 
And  he  at  first  a  sick  and  weakly  child. 

As  e'er  with  tears  welcomed  the  sunny  ray; 

Yet  when  more  years  afford  more  growth  and  might, 
A  champion  stout  he  was,  and  puissant  knight. 
As  ever  came  in  field,  or  shone  in  armor  bright. 

*•  Mountains  he  flings  in  seas  with  mighty  hand ; 

Stops  and  turns  back  the  sun's  impetuous  course ; 
Nature  breaks  Nature's  laws  at  his  command ; 
No  force  of  Hell  or  Heaven  withstands  his  force; 
Events  to  come  yet  many  ages  hence, 
He  present  makes,  by  wondrous  prescience  ; 
Proving  the  senses  blind  by  being  blind  to  sense." 

'•  Yesterday,  at  dawn,"  says  Hafiz,  '•  God  delivered  me 
from  all  worldly  affliction ;  and  amidst  the  gloom  of 
night  presented  me  with  the  water  of  immortality.'" 

In  the  life  of  Sadi  by  Dowlat  Shah,  occurs  this  sen- 
tence. •'  The  eagle  of  the  immaterial  soul  of  Shaikh 
Sadi  shook  from  his  plumage  the  dust  of  his  body."" 

Thus  thoughtfully  we  were  rowing  homeward  to 
find  some  autumnal  work  to  do,  and  help  on  the 
revolution  of  the  seasons.  Perhaps  Nature  would 
condescend  to  make  use  of  us  even  without  our 
knowledge,  as  when  we  help  to  scatter  her  seeds  in 
our  walks,  and  carry  burrs  and  cockles  on  our  clothes 
from  field  to  field. 


FRIDA  V.  395 


All  things  are  current  found 
On  earthly  ground, 
Spirits  and  elements 
Have  their  descents. 

Night  and  day,  year  on  year, 
High  and  low,  far  and  near. 
These  are  our  own  aspects, 
These  are  our  own  regrets. 

Ye  gods  of  the  shore. 
Who  abide  evermore, 
I  see  your  far  headland. 
Stretching  on  either  hand ; 

I  hear  the  sweet  evening  sounds 
From  your  undecaying  grounds ; 
Cheat  me  no  more  with  time. 
Take  me  to  vour  clime. 


As  it  grew  later  in  the  afternoon,  and  we  rowed 
leisurely  up  the  gentle  stream,  shut  in  between  fra- 
grant and  blooming  banks,  where  we  had  first  pitched 
our  tent,  and  drew  nearer  to  the  fields  where  our 
lives  had  passed,  we  seemed  to  detect  the  hues  of 
our  native  sky  in  the  south-west  horizon.  The  sun 
was  just  setting  behind  the  edge  of  a  wooded  hill,  so 
rich  a  sunset  as  would  never  have  ended  but  for 
some  reason  unknown  to  men,  and  to  be  marked  with 
brighter  colors  than  ordinary  in  the  scroll  of  time. 
Though  the  shadows  of  the  hills  were  beginning  to 
steal  over  the  stream,  the  whole  river  valley  undulated 
with  mild  light,  purer  and  more  memorable  than  the 
noon.  For  so  day  bids  farewell  even'  to  solitary  vales 
uninhabited  by  man.  Two  blue-herons,  ardea  he- 
rodias,   with   their  long  and   slender  limbs    relieved 


396    A    WEEK   OX   THE    COXCORD   RIVER. 

against  the  sky.  were  seen  travelling  high  over  our 
heads.  —  their  lofty  and  silent  flight,  as  they  were 
wending  their  way  at  evening,  surely  not  to  alight  in 
any  marsh  on  the  earth's  surface,  but,  perchance,  on 
the  other  side  of  our  atmosphere,  a  symbol  for  the 
ages  to  study,  whether  impressed  upon  the  sky.  or 
sculptured  amid  the  hieroglyphics  of  Egypt.  Bound 
to  some  northern  meadow,  they  held  on  their  stately, 
stationary  flight,  like  the  storks  in  the  picture,  and 
disappeared  at  length  behind  the  clouds.  Dense 
flocks  of  blackbirds  were  winging  their  way  along 
the  river's  course,  as  if  on  a  short  evening  pilgrimage 
to  some  shrine  of  theirs,  or  to  celebrate  so  fair  a 
sunset. 

"  Therefore,  as  dotli  the  pilgrim,  whom  the  night 
Hastes  darkly  to  imprison  on  his  way. 
Think  on  thy  home,  my  soul,  and  think  aright 
Of  what 's  yet  left  thee  of  life's  wasting  day  : 
Thy  sun  posts  westward,  passed  is  thy  morn, 
And  twice  it  is  not  given  thee  to  be  born." 

The  sun-setting  presumed  all  men  at  leisure  and 
in  a  contemplative  mood :  but  the  farmers  boy 
only  whistled  the  more  thoughtfully  as  he  drove  his 
cows  home  from  pasture,  and  the  teamster  refrained 
from  cracking  his  whip,  and  guided  his  team  with  a 
subdued  voice.  The  last  vestiges  of  daylight  at  length 
disappeared,  and  as  we  rowed  silently  along  with  our 
backs  toward  home  through  the  darkness,  only  a 
few  stars  being  visible,  we  had  little  to  say,  but 
sat  absorbed  in  thought,  or  in  silence  listened  to  the 
monotonous  sound  of  our  oars,  a  sort  of  rudimental 
music,  suitable  for  the  ear  of  Night  and  the  acoustics 
of  her  dimly  liglited  halls  ; 


FRIDA  V.  397 

"  Pulsae  referunt  ad  sidera  valles," 

and  the  valleys  echoed  the  sound  to  the  stars. 

As  we  looked  up  in  silence  to  those  distant  lights, 
we  were  reminded  that  it  was  a  rare  imagination 
which  first  taught  that  the  stars  are  worlds,  and 
had  conferred  a  great  benefit  on  mankind.  It  is 
recorded  in  the  Chronicle  of  Bernaldez,  that  in  Co- 
lumbus's first  voyage  the  natives  "  pointed  towards 
the  heavens,  making  signs  that  they  believed  that 
there  was  all  power  and  holiness/''  We  have  reason 
to  be  grateful  for  celestial  phenomena,  for  they  chiefly 
answer  to  the  ideal  in  man.  The  stars  are  distant 
and  unobtrusive,  but  bright  and  enduring  as  our 
fairest  and  most  memorable  experienceso  "  Let  the 
immortal  depth  of  your  soul  lead  you,  but  earnestly 
extend  your  eyes  upwards." 

As  the  truest  society  approaches  always  nearer  to 
solitude,  so  the  most  excellent  speech  finally  falls 
into  Silence.  Silence  is  audible  to  all  men,  at 
all  times,  and  in  all  places.  She  is  when  we  hear 
inwardly,  sound  when  we  hear  outwardly.  Creation 
has  not  displaced  her,  but  is  her  visible  framework 
and  foil.  All  sounds  are  her  servants  and  purveyors, 
proclaiming  not  only  that  their  mistress  is,  but  is  a 
rare  mistress,  and  earnestly  to  be  sought  after.  They 
are  so  far  akin  to  Silence,  that  they  are  but  bubbles 
on  her  surface,  which  straightway  burst,  an  evidence 
of  the  strength  and  prolificness  of  the  under-current ; 
a  faint  utterance  of  silence,  and  then  only  agreeable 
to  our  auditory  nerves  when  they  contrast  themselves 
with  and  relieve  the  former.  In  proportion  as  they 
do  this,  and  are  heighteners  and  intensifiers  of  the 
Silence,  they  are  harmony  and  purest  melody. 


398    A    WEEK   OX   THE    CONCORD   RIVER. 

Silence  is  the  universal  refuge,  the  sequel  to  all 
dull  discourses  and  all  foolish  acts,  a  balm  to  our  every 
chagrin,  as  welcome  after  satiety  as  after  disappoint- 
ment ;  that  background  which  the  painter  may  not 
daub,  be  he  master  or  bungler,  and  which,  how- 
ever awkward  a  figure  we  may  have  made  in  the  fore- 
ground, remains  ever  our  inviolable  asylum,  where  no 
indignity  can  assail,  no  personality  disturb  us. 

The  orator  puts  off  his  individuality,  and  is  then 
most  eloquent  when  most  silent.  He  listens  while 
he  speaks,  and  is  a  hearer  along  with  his  audience. 
Who  has  not  hearkened  to  Her  infinite  din  ?  She 
is  Truth's  speaking  trumpet,  the  sole  oracle,  the 
true  Delphi  and  Dodona,  which  kings  and  courtiers 
would  do  well  to  consult,  nor  will  they  be  balked  by 
au  ambiguous  answer.  For  through  Her  all  reve- 
lations have  been  made,  and  just  in  proportion  as 
men  have  consulted  her  oracle  within,  they  have 
obtained  a  clear  insight,  and  their  age  has  been  marked 
as  an  enlightened  one.  But  as  often  as  they  have 
gone  gadding  abroad  to  a  strange  Delphi  and  her 
mad  priestess,  their  age  has  been  dark  and  leaden. 
Such  were  garrulous  and  noisy  eras,  which  no  longer 
yield  any  sound,  but  the  Grecian  or  silent  and  melo- 
dious era  is  ever  sounding  and  resounding  in  the 
ears  of  men. 

A  good  book  is  the  plectrum  with  which  our  else 
silent  lyres  are  struck.  We  not  unfrequently  refer 
the  interest  which  belongs  to  our  own  unwritten 
sequel,  to  the  written  and  comparatively  lifeless  body 
of  the  work.  Of  all  books  this  sequel  is  the  most 
indispensable  part.  It  should  be  the  author's  aim 
to  say  once  and  emphatically,  ^' He  said,"  "  Ic^y;."'  I. 
This  is  the  most  the  book  maker  can  attain  to.     If  he 


FRIDA  V.  399 

make  his  volume  a  mole  whereon  the  waves  of  Silence 
may  break,  it  is  well. 

It  were  vain  for  me  to  endeavor  to  interpret  the 
Silence.  She  cannot  be  done  into  English.  For 
six  thousand  years  men  have  translated  her  with  what 
fidelity  belonged  to  each,  and  still  she  is  little  better 
than  a  sealed  book.  A  man  may  run  on  con- 
fidently for  a  time,  thinking  he  has  her  under  his 
thumb,  and  shall  one  day  exhaust  her,  but  he  too 
must  at  last  be  silent,  and  men  remark  only  how 
brave  a  beginning  he  made ;  for  when  he  at  length 
dives  into  her,  so  vast  is  the  disproportion  of  the  told 
to  the  untold,  that  the  former  will  seem  but  the 
bubble  on  the  surface  where  he  disappeared.  Never- 
theless, we  will  go  on,  like  those  Chinese  cliff  swal- 
lows, feathering  our  nests  with  the  froth  which  may 
one  day  be  bread  of  life  to  such  as  dwell  by  the 
seashore. 

We  had  made  about  fifty  miles  this  day  with  sail 
and  oar,  and  now,  far  in  the  evenings  our  boat  was 
grating  against  the  bulrushes  of  its  native  port,  and 
its  keel  recognized  the  Concord  mud,  where  some 
semblance  of  its  outline  was  still  preserved  in  the 
flattened  flags  which  had  scarce  yet  erected  them- 
selves since  our  departure;  and  we  leaped  gladly 
on  shore,  drawing  it  up,  and  fastening  it  to  the  wild 
apple  tree,  whose  stem  still  bore  the  mark  which  its 
chain  had  worn  in  the  chafing  of  the  spring  freshets. 


ELECTROTYPED    BY  J.    S.    GUSHING   4   CO.,    NORWOOD,    MASS. 


I 


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